Choose Your Crucifixion
by makeyafamous
Summary: The first time I met Bobby Mercer, I punched him in the face. Bobby/OC
1. Confusion

**This is my first "Four Brothers" fic and I only recently just saw the movie, so I hope you enjoy!**

Smoking was my one vice. I didn't drink or do drugs, I didn't gamble or prostitute myself. I smoked cigarettes, and I took pride in doing so since I enjoyed it so damn much, which meant I had to roll my own cigarettes. Bali Golden Shag Rolling Tobacco inside Golden Wrap Strawberry Tobacco Paper, lit with a Zippo lighter decorated with the dancing body of Elvis Presley. Nothing else in my life took such meticulousness, not even my job. That should've been cause for concern, but it just wasn't.

I was smoking the night I heard about Evelyn Mercer's untimely death. I'd used my last strawberry-flavored rolling paper, angering me to my very core as I was known to wake up in the middle of the night craving nothing but that strawberry taste on my lips. As I smoked, I'd contemplated a trip to the 24 hour convenience store a few blocks over; a store that turned out to be the last place anyone saw Evelyn Mercer alive.

Lynda Manning -- former (she said) pick-pocket extraordinaire -- had been the one to give me the news. She came into my room without knocking; something Lynda'd never done before, something she knew I hated.

"Something happened," she said, standing in the middle of my room, breathing heavily. Her sapphire eyes bulged out of their sockets. I'd never seen her this way before unless she was running from Detective Green or that idiot sidekick of his, Fowler.

"Are you gonna tell me or do I have to guess?" I asked, irritated that she'd violated my privacy, weirdly hoping it was something important and she didn't just need to borrow some money or my car.

"Evelyn Mercer's dead."

At first I thought I'd heard wrong. Evelyn Mercer dead? Not possible. She was old, yes, but healthier than I. She couldn't have died from natural causes, which frightened me. I found myself praying next; praying that she'd died in her sleep or something equally pain-free and pleasant.

"What happened?" I asked, though I didn't want to know. I really didn't want to know.

Lynda looked down nervously, shifting her weight wearily as though she didn't want to tell me. Probably afraid I would lash out at her, which wasn't unlike me lately.

"She was shot," Lynda finally confessed. "At that store where you buy your tobacco and shit."

Shot? What? If there was one thing in the world that made absolutely no sense it was Evelyn Mercer: dead by gunshot. Those words didn't even belong in the same sentence.

"Tell me you're joking," I warned Lynda. "You know how I feel about jokes."

"I wouldn't joke about something like this!" she exclaimed, offended. "What do you take me for?"

I realized she wouldn't joke about something like this and I felt badly for insinuating that she would. No apology was needed, thank God, as I wasn't big on apologies. Anyone who knew me knew that.

"Shot," I whispered, feeling lightheaded as I went into shock. "What are you talking about?"

"They said two guys robbed the place and shot the clerk and Evelyn, too."

"Son of a bitch," I sighed, scrubbing a hand not so gently across my face. All I wanted was a cigarette. During the news delivery, I'd smoked the hell out of my last strawberry-flavored paper and dropped it out the window. I didn't even remember doing it.

"Are you okay?" Lynda inquired quietly. She hadn't moved from her spot in the middle of my room.

I didn't answer. Instead, I got up and proceeded to rummage through my drawers. I couldn't move things out of my quickly enough, so I ripped the drawers out of the dresser, throwing them to the floor. There was a pack of Marlboro Reds hidden in one drawer, I was sure of it, for times like this.

"What are you looking for?" Lynda asked, but she received no answer until finally I found the stray pack of cigarettes in the very last drawer at the very bottom.

"Evelyn Mercer," I breathed, taking the pack and returning to my seat on the edge of my window. "Son of a bitch."

Although it was Evelyn I should've been thinking about, another person crossed my mind. I hadn't seen him in years, but I doubted he'd changed much. I imagined his reaction and the inevitable ripple affect his reaction would have on probably all of Detroit. Deep down I hoped no one would tell him of his mother's death. A heartless decision, maybe, but not spiteful. He would only cause trouble, and I wasn't the only person who knew that.

"Are you gonna call him?" Lynda questioned.

I looked at her, wondering if this was the first time I'd looked at her during the entire conversation.

"Even if I knew how to get a hold of him, no, I wouldn't," I said. I lit a cigarette, inhaling, satisified.

"She's his mother," Lynda argued.

"Was," I corrected because I needed to get used to the fact that Evelyn Mercer was dead. "And you don't know Bobby Mercer, do you?"

I must've angered her because Lynda came back with: "Not as well as _you_, Abby."

A misplaced smile graced my lips. "You will."


	2. Blue

**I decided to post this chapter so soon because the prologue didn't have any Mercers in it and I know that's why people read these stories.**

**A few warnings as well: this story will contain a lot of heavy language and sex. And while it takes place during the movie, no scenes will be dramatically changed to accomodate the OC, but they may be altered.**

**Okay enough from me. Thanks for reading!  
**

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As I watched the mourners disperse from the expansive circle around Evelyn Mercer's coffin, I lit the seventh of 16 cigarettes I'd rolled before leaving the house this morning. As well as a vice, smoking was my only true defense mechanism. When I didn't want to cry, I smoked because the burning sensation in the back of my throat made my brain concentrate on that. When I didn't want to punch someone in the face or avoid a confrontation, I smoked because it gave me something else to do with my hand. I smoked now because it was rude to smoke at a funeral, so it kept me away from everyone. One man in particular.

I spotted him as the crowd thinned, surprised as hell to see that he was wearing a tie. In all the years I'd known Bobby Mercer, he wouldn't even walk near neckties in the store. Well, I wouldn't allow him within ten feet of the ties, as Bobby liked to carry scissors on him when he knew he'd be going to the mall. Bobby hadn't changed. Not even a little bit. Same hair, same clothing (except for the tie), same confident swagger. He probably had his same temper, too.

The three Mercer boys -- Bobby, Jeremiah, and Jack -- stayed behind for a few moments. Angel Mercer was missing. They continued to stare at the box that held their adoptive mother, talking amongst themselves, and I didn't know why I hadn't left yet. I stood next to what had to be the largest tree in the cemetery, watching the siblings mourn for their mother, chain-smoking as I did. I fought the inclination to approach them, announce my presence, and sock Bobby in the face for not keeping in touch when he'd left.

The first time I met Bobby Mercer, I punched him in the face. He'd had a blue-black ring around his right eye for a week after.

I'd gone to the ice rink to pick up my then boyfriend, Eli James. Eli never really excelled at hockey, but he was freakishly tall and mildly strong; therefore he thought he outshone everyone at everything he did. He was good in bed and that was one main reason he and I lasted more than six months.

On that particular day, I'd made myself comfortable in the stands outside the rink, warming myself in Eli's humongous coat. Everything had been going well -- as well as to be expected -- when Eli was suddenly body-checked into the wall, falling with a howl onto the ice. He would later be diagnosed with two cracked ribs. But he fought the pain and climbed to his feet, acting as though he weren't going after the player who'd hit him. So when everyone turned and skated back toward the center of the ice, Eli tackled the much shorter man who'd legally -- illegally, according to Eli -- body-checked him, forcing him hard onto the ice.

"Christ," I growled, standing, making my way toward the little door that opened to the ice. "Eli!" I yelled heatedly, slamming my bare hand on the gate. "What the hell are you doing!" Just then he landed a perfect punch to his opponent's gut, and the shorter man fell over. I'd been hoping Eli would lose because I just didn't want to hear about it all night long.

"Take that shit back to your bitch mother," Eli said, seizing the opportunity to spit on his fallen victim. I'd rolled my eyes, embarrassed to have to leave the rink with him.

The guy Eli had been fighting laughed, guffawed, as he climbed to his feet, his legs never quaking even on skates.

"That your pretty girlfriend over there?" he asked, pointing in my direction. Great, I thought, now I get to be insulted because Eli's a douchebag. "Bet she looks real good under you, huh?" He'd glanced at me then, dark eyes quickly giving me a once-over. "But just not as good as she looks under me when she's beggin' for _my_ dick." He smiled proudly. "Or any other dick on the ice right now."

Eli went to push the man again, but the owner of the rink made himself known by demanding everyone in attendance leave before he called the cops. I was thankful for the interruption.

The boys headed for the gate where I stood, Eli the first to step out, and I removed his jacket, handing it to him. I'd been unable to hide my fury at him or the tiny man he'd been bickering with.

"Hey, baby, listen," the shorter man said, folding his arms on the gate in front of me. Against my better judgment, I'd looked at him, straight into a pair of brown, maybe green, eyes. "If you want a real man who can give it to you all night long and into the next day, I'm right here."

I'd smirked. He was disrespecting Eli, clearly, but he was doing it in such a charming way.

I leaned closer to him, narrowing my eyes, and said, "When you want a real woman, take _your_ dick -" I pointed at his crotch. "-out of _his_ ass-" I pointed to another hockey player standing by. "-and call me."

"Don't do me like that, honey," he gibed as I was walking away. "I'd pay you way more than that cheap bastard."

I'd turned back to him then, retracing my steps slowly. Surprising myself and everyone watching, I'd reeled back and clocked him right in the eye, sending him back onto the ice flat on his back.

"I'm not a whore," I told him, glaring down at him.

As Eli and I left, I heard him say to his friends, "I think I'm in love."

Coming back to my present day reality, I glanced at my car, wondering if now would be a good time to make a clean break. I couldn't talk to them -- none of them -- now, maybe not ever again. When I looked back, Jerry and Bobby were walking away from the casket, and I rolled behind the trunk of the tree so they wouldn't see me. Big mistake.

"_Abby_?"

I knew the voice, but it still startled me. I dropped the cigarette into the snow, stomping the flame instinctively, and turned around. Jack Mercer stood towering over me, his own cigarette between his fingers, obviously shivering from the cold. He still looked the same, though he seemed miles taller than he'd been the last time I'd seen him. His eyes were still a clear, beautiful blue, and his face was so soft and young. Sweet, sweet Jackie Mercer.

"Jack," I acknowledged, finding it easier to smile with him in front of me.

"Oh man," Jack gushed, cigarette falling from his fingers before he threw two massively long arms around my midsection and effortlessly lifted me in the air.

"Jackie!" I exclaimed, though my voice was but a whisper. "Jack, put me down!" He set me down on my feet and his face was aglow.

"I just - I can't believe you're here," he babbled, motioning with his hand before it landed in the mess of hair on his head. "I thought you were goin' to California or somethin'."

I breathed a laugh, easily recalling the days when I'd told everyone who would listen that I was going to California to become an actress. Or a singer, whichever came first. Unfortunately for me, I was about as talented as Roseanne singing the National Anthem.

"How've you been, Jackie?" I asked, hoping the kid was still easy to dupe, still easy to distract from the main point of things.

"You know," he shrugged, those ocean blue eyes glancing in the direction of his dead mother.

I nodded understandingly.

"I can't believe Bobby didn't tell me you were here!" Jack whined. Jackie had always been such a whiner. Oddly, I realized how much I'd missed it.

"When are you gonna cut your hair, Jackie?" I asked, exploiting Jack's short attention span. I reached up to touch the wild spikes, and he ducked away from my hand just as he always did. He opened his mouth to reply -- probably with a _never_ -- but then he stopped.

"Bobby don't know you're here, does he?" he smirked.

"If you were me, would you tell him?" I retorted.

Jack nodded, his mega-watt smile never faltering. "Yeah, he might get a little pissed."

I couldn't help my next question. "How's Bobby doing?"

"Bobby's Bobby, you know him," Jack replied, cocking his head, looking away. If I were ten years younger, Jack Mercer would've been the Mercer I chased after.

"Jack, you can't tell him I'm here," I blurted.

"You're kidding, right?" Jack asked incredulously, those amazing eyes growing three times their normal size.

"Not even a little bit."

"I can't keep _anything_ from Bobby!" Jack squeaked, bending over dramatically. "The last time I tried to keep a secret from him, he shaved my eyebrows!"

I laughed at the memory. Jack had lied to Bobby about going on a date with Susie McAvoy from down the street when he was actually going to a party hosted by people Bobby later beat up, so Bobby had stayed up all night long waiting for him. When Jack returned home, drunk and horribly stoned, Bobby helped him up to his room where Jack promptly passed out on his bed. He'd woken up the next morning, hungover and hilariously eyebrow-less.

"Jack, if you tell Bobby about me, _I'll_ shave your eyebrows," I warned.

"Well, you're gonna see him, right?" Jack asked.

Absolutely not.

"Just keep your pretty mouth shut, okay, Jackie?"

"You're not gonna see him," he said, tilting his head, nodding perceptively. Sometimes I wondered if Jack didn't know me better than Bobby. Sometimes.

I opened my mouth to answer when I heard the voice of the very man we spoke of.

"Jackie! Put it back in your pants, this is a cemetery! Now get your ass over here!" Bobby shouted. I accidentally closed my eyes and I could see Bobby so vividly, the expression on his face as he hollered for his brother. I was leaning against the tree, fortunately shielding my body from Bobby's line of sight.

"You should come to Jerry's," Jack advised.

Jackie's relentlessness never ceased to make me smile. And neither did his stupidity.

"Not gonna happen, kiddo," I told him.

"Well ..." He paused, his eyes rolling around as he thought. "What if you come over and I hide you from Bobby?"

I giggled, shaking my head. Damn kids.

"Jack, let's go!" Bobby commanded.

"Just come over and see Jerry," Jack persuaded. "Jerry can keep a secret, too!" When I shook my head, he went on, "I'll distract Bobby for you."

"Jack," I sighed.

"Please?" he begged, holding his hands together in a prayer position. "Who knows when I'm gonna see you again?"

"Don't make me come over there, Jack!" Bobby interrupted.

"Jack, go!" I demanded.

"If you'll come."

"I'll be there, Christ!"

"If you don't come, I'll tell Bobby so fast ...!"

"Get the hell outta here, Jack, I'll go!"

He pressed a quick, sloppy kiss to my forehead before running to meet Bobby, saving me from seeing him. I wanted to look at him, though I told myself I didn't. It took everything I had not to peek out from behind the tree, which is probably why ten minutes later I found myself sitting in my car, parked several houses down from Jeremiah Mercer's home.


	3. Imagine

**Wow. It's taken a nice long time for me to update, huh? I do apologize, sincerely. I actually hadn't planned on updating again until I started getting more reviews and even more people adding this story to their alert list, which, to me, is just as valuable as reviews. So thank you so much for reading, reviewing, and alerting! You're all wonderful, and this story will be updated (hopefully) regularly!**

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My eyes narrowed against the thick cloud of smoke smothering me in my car. It was too cold to roll down a window and let the exhaled smoke escape, and besides, inhaling the already exhaled smoke prevented me from spending all my cigarettes too quickly. I had three left and they needed to last.

I watched some of the same people I'd seen at the funeral filter in and out of Jeremiah Mercer's moderate home, recognizing most of them as friends of Evelyn's or family or some of the kids from the neighborhood she'd helped in the past. There were a lot of tears as they went in, but laughter as they came out. Jeremiah was sweet, so I assumed he was trying to make the best of the situation; bringing up happy memories, embarrassing stories concerning his siblings, and proud moments with his children. Jack was likely attached to Bobby's hip, outside, since he smoked. I still had no idea where Angel was. No way he would choose not to pay his respects to the woman who all but saved his life.

A knock at the window had me jumping, the cigarette between my fingers falling between my legs. I clawed at the wayward flame quickly, burning my fingers several times in the process until coming up with it. After jamming it out in the ashtray, I finally rolled the window down. Not my lucky day, it seemed, as I came face-to-face with Lieutenant Green and, with him as always, Detective Fucking Fowler.

"What do ya say, Truelove?" Green smirked. His unusual eyes stealthily searched my vehicle. As I watched all the smoke slither out into the freezing air, I realized it probably looked like I was smoking weed in here. "What the hell you doin' sittin' out here?"

"You gonna arrest me for sittin' in my car, Green?" I asked. He and I had a questionable relationship. Back in the days of Bobby Mercer and Abigail Truelove - Bonnie and Clyde, Green called us - he'd looked passed a lot of shit we'd done. He arrested us for the really big things, such as vandalism, obstruction of justice, assault, and battery (Bobby's favorite), but if he caught us smoking weed or for public intoxication, he'd let it slide as if he wasn't even there. Who would've thought that Lieutenant Green had soft spots for struggling couples living in Detroit, Michigan, with absolutely no direction in life?

"Not a crime yet, that I know of," Green replied. My grin was quick and I rolled my eyes. "You just gonna sit out here all day in this piece of shit?" He liked to insult my car; a pastime of his. Bobby had bought this early edition Mustang for next to nothing and had put it together almost from scratch as a birthday present some years back. I didn't exactly enjoy riding around in something that reminded me of Bobby Mercer every day, but it still ran great and I didn't have money to spend on a new used car, let alone a new one.

Sighing, I said, "I'm pacing myself." Not a lie (not a huge one, anyway). Green nodded knowingly.

"Sorry about Evelyn," he said. I thanked him with a nod of my own and what had to be a very confused expression. Compassion from a cop was just not something you saw every day. He tapped the side of my car before heading toward the house. I hoped hard that Fowler would follow like the good lap dog he was.

"How you doin', Abby?" he asked, leaning down like Green had. Hopes shattered.

"Just dandy, Fowler," I bit. Really, my hatred for the police force - one cop barely excluded - was no secret. Either Fowler had an uncalled for crush on me or he loved to patronize me. "How are you today?" His responding smile was wolfish. I glared.

"You have a good day now," he told me, pointing. He jogged to catch up with Green, who, instead of using the front door, walked down the path on the side of the house that led to the backyard. Depending on Jackie's smoking habit and how much lingering he could do around Bobby, that may be the entrance that would save me a hell of a lot of trouble.

I had to get out of the car first, of course.

Double-checking to be sure I had my remaining cigarettes and a lighter, I stepped out into the cold, immediately pulling the black beanie down on my head. I wrapped my arms around myself and walked swiftly toward the path. Luckily for me, new arrivals beat me to the near hidden sidewalk, and I was able to sneak in almost unnoticed. The few people in attendance I knew stared at me, some with looks of sympathy and small smiles, while others glared hatefully. I wasn't spiteful toward the dirty looks, though, because they were well deserved; most of these people had been the victims of me and Bobby's pranks or our crimes. A part of me wanted to apologize, but a bigger part of me wanted to laugh. Some people just couldn't let things go.

Glancing quickly at the faces of the guests in the backyard, I didn't see Bobby.

I heard him.

"I didn't come back for no funeral," Bobby Mercer said. My teeth grinded and my eyes closed; sometimes I hated being right. Bobby wasn't here to pay his respects or spend time with the brothers he left behind years ago - no, he wanted revenge, and if he was anything like he was during the time we'd dated, he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied.

"Thanks for the offer, but we got it under control," Green replied. Good luck with that.

"Yeah. You know, I could tell by the looks of things when I drove in," Bobby said. "The place looks completely different. Detroit's finest cleaned it up, huh?" I smiled. Sometimes - like when I got in the Mustang or I came across one of Bobby's random tee shirts he'd forgotten at my apartment - I really missed him. The way he smelled, the warmth he created in the bed next to me ... I missed it.

"_Abby_?"

My body twitched with sincere hatred for my name. Jack gently grabbed my shoulder and turned me around, yanking me into a hug before I could protest. What if Bobby saw? With everything I'd been through today, I wasn't sure I'd be able to contain my emotions if I had to speak with Bobby without any preparation.

"I'm glad you came," Jack grinned, holding me close. His big hands were on my face and he gazed hard into my eyes with his big blues.

"Well, what else was I gonna do?" I asked quietly, quickly glancing around the backyard. The back of Bobby's head was still visible, and he clearly hadn't noticed me. Yet. "With you threatening to _tattle_ on me and everything." Jack giggled.

"I'll go get Jerry for ya," he offered, then disappeared into the crowd of people. I stayed put, hugging myself, keeping my head down. It was all I could do to keep from staring at the back of Bobby's head, all I could do not to run up to him and level him for leaving me or stealing one of the cops' guns and taking out a kneecap.

I sighed. Jack was taking too long, and I was beginning to sweat under the pressure, the anxiety of being so close to Bobby Mercer. I rubbed my eyes nervously, shifting my weight. It was getting to be too much and I was about to bolt when ...

"You seen Abby out front?" Green asked. My body froze. Fucking Green. I always knew that man would cause me trouble one day, but did he have to do it _today_?

"Abby who?" Bobby asked. Shut up, Green, I thought. Just shut your mouth.

"_Abby who_," Green mocked, chuckling. "Abby Truelove. Your girlfriend."

Time to make my escape.

"Abby," I heard Bobby repeat. "What, Abby's _here_?"

I pushed passed several people blocking my way to the path, whispering an apology, and I nearly sprinted for my car. My heart told me to go back and face him - be a grown up and come clean concerning the surprise in Bobby's voice that I was even in town. He didn't need to know, though, especially not in lue of Evelyn's death and an obvious mission he was on to find her killer. I was halfway to my car before Bobby started hollering my name.

"Abby!" he shouted. Continuing to walk briskly, I cringed. "Abby!" The Mustang was within ten feet now, but it didn't matter. Bobby had a grip on my arm and was spinning me around.

My heart fell. His face was the same, only older, worn, tired, and his eyes were harder, too. The misplaced tie around his neck flittered in the freezing wind as he glared down at me. I couldn't read his expression - I guess there's a first time for everything. Too many feelings crossed his face far too swiftly for me to recognize. I could only guess that he hated me, resented the fact that I was here during this crucial time in his life. He was still beautiful, as much as I didn't want to admit it - I still liked his face. And _son of a bitch_ he still smelled good. The wind brought the scent right into my nostrils, and I breathed it in deeply. I would never forget this smell.

"What, you can't call?" Bobby demanded. I didn't know how much time had passed since he'd grabbed my arm. Was he referring to not calling after he'd left or not calling to let him know that I'd be at Evelyn's funeral? Not important.

"I gotta go," I spat. I wanted to argue, wanted to fight, wanted to get into one of our knock down, drag out physical fights. I'd punch him and he'd shove me as we shouted insults and promises we didn't mean, then we'd fall into bed and have better sex than the time before. But I didn't argue and I didn't swing at him. I knew what I needed to do, what was best for me, and that was to extricate myself from the situation immediately.

"You're kiddin' me, right?" Bobby snapped, yanking me back when I tried to walk away. He pulled me closer, almost against his chest. His cologne and natural scent hit me head on again and my knees wobbled. "I don't hear from you in almost seven years and you wanna just walk away?"

"Yeah, I do!" I yelled. "So fuckin' let me go!"

"What's a' matter with you?" he roared. No doubt my unwillingness to speak with him was puzzling, but I had my reasons. My very good reasons. "Where you stayin'?"

I hesitated. If I lied and told him I was staying with Lynda or any other friend of mine, he would check on it. If I wasn't there when he arrived, he'd wait. A lie wasn't an option. Staying perfectly quiet on the matter, however, was an option.

"Bobby," I began, "I ain't above kickin' you in the shin, so if you don't let me go, you're gonna have a broken tibia."

"What the fuck is a tibia?" he asked dumbly. He didn't know it, but I'd just given away a great clue as to why I hadn't contacted him and why I couldn't tell him I was still living in Detroit.

"Let me go," I reiterated as calmly as possible. Bobby opened his mouth, probably to refuse, but someone calling my name cut him off. Why was everybody shouting _my_ name today?

Bobby and I looked in the direction of the shouter, finding Jerry jogging toward us, Jack in hot pursuit. Wonderful. My eyes rolled then closed. Damn Jerry would rat me out, I knew it. Jerry was the only Mercer brother wise to my secret because he was the only one still living in Detroit, and there was no doubt he'd even think that I didn't want Bobby to know.

Miraculously, Bobby's grip loosened on my arm during this second of distraction, and I snatched the opportunity to yank my arm from his slack grasp. I sprinted for my car, tore open the door, and threw myself inside, immediately locking the doors afterward. He was at my window in moments, slapping the glass and the roof, demanding that I unlock the doors before he broke the window. I sped off before he got the chance to do so. Watching him in the rearview mirror, he tossed his arms in the air dramatically, his mouth moving a mile a minute as he bitched about me and tried to get answers from his brothers.

This wasn't how I'd imagined our reunion, but it was close. In my world, we shared some words and lots of insults, we hollered back and forth and gathered a crowd, I punched him in the mouth and he shoved me backward, then we kissed and had a generous amount of sex on the nearest flat surface. Definitely not what happened. It was my desire to blame Bobby for the way our meeting had taken place, but (for the first time ever) it wasn't entirely his fault. I shouldn't have gone to Jeremiah's at all, I shouldn't have let Jackie talk me into it.

That's it! It was _Jack's_ fault! Jack had been the one I wanted to see, and Angel, too; not Jerry because I already see Jerry several times a week whether I want to or not. What a bad idea to have gone to his house. I'm smarter than that. Stupid Jack Mercer and his sad ass eyes.

I arrived at the apartment I'd once shared with Bobby after ignoring a double digit amount of phone calls from Jerry. Jerry probably wasn't the only one calling me from his phone, either. I took a long shower in hopes the hot water and smothering steam would make me forget the way Bobby smelled and how extraordinarily _handsome_ he'd looked in the tie. There weren't many times I'd considered Bobby handsome. Countless times I'd found him sexy, but handsome? The thought was strange.

The shower didn't help; the water and steam only succeeded in making me forget to actually clean my body. I fell onto the couch after returning to the shower and now cold water to get clean. Things needed to be done: I had to set my clothes out for work tomorrow (not a morning person), there were papers somewhere that needed my signature, and I hadn't even looked at my schedule for tomorrow. Fucking Bobby Mercer wouldn't get out of my head, and I smacked my forehead as a way of fighting this truth.

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_I sipped coffee that tasted at least a week old, my feet tapping against each other from their position on the kitchen table. Where the fuck is he? I asked myself, grimacing. Bastard. He knows better than this. Knows better than to keep me waiting and worried._

_The front door opened, and I tossed the spoon on the table. It landed with a clatter and a screech, droplets of brown staining the surface. I crossed my arms over my chest, glowering, as Bobby entered the kitchen._

_"What the fuck happened to you?" I demanded._

_"Don't start with me, Abigail," Bobby grumbled. He discarded his jacket, dropping it on the floor, as he headed for the refrigerator. Was he kidding?_

_"You fucking disappear on me all night and don't come back until the next afternoon, and I'm not supposed to start with you?" I continued screaming. I stood from the table._

_"Do we ever have any fuckin' food in this place?" he shouted, slamming the fridge door. The big, cold box shook and nearly toppled over. He was avoiding my questions. Well, he couldn't avoid my proof._

_I flung the morning's newspaper at him, which was opened to the section that listed crimes and the people who committed them in and around the area. He caught it, barely glancing at the tiny printed words, and then he hurled it across the room._

_"What do you want me to say?" he asked, shrugging._

_"Assault, Bobby?" I screamed. "What's the matter with you? You just got out of jail! What, did you miss it? Or were you looking for a reason to piss me off?"_

_"Yeah, that's what I do all day, Abby!" Bobby hissed sarcastically. "Think of ways I can just piss you off! That's why I kicked that guy's ass! I thought to myself, 'gee, Bobby, this is sure to make Abby hate me just a little bit more'."_

_"Are you goin' back?" I inquired, taming the rage in my voice momentarily. "Are you leaving me alone again because you can't control your fucking temper?"_

_He stood there, leaning back against the sink, long sleeved shirt clinging to his chest, begging me to stare at it and forget how upset I truly was. But my eyes never left his as he gazed down at me, looking for I don't know what, searching every feature of my face. It wasn't often he looked at me like this, so I was never prepared for it when it happened. Looks like this reminded me why I was with him and why he was with me._

_"I ain't goin' back," he told me sincerely. I swallowed._

_"What are you talking about?"_

_"Guy dropped the charges."_

_"That ... doesn't happen," I said. "Ever." Bobby smiled. Actually smiled. And he reached across the space between us to grab my hand so he was able to yank me against his body. "Why did he drop the charges?" I wanted to know, my voice lower, quieter, responding to our current position._

_"I don't know," Bobby rumbled thoughtfully, his hands massaging my hips and sliding further back. "Maybe he thought I had a cute ass." I gasped playfully._

_"Did you tell him that's my ass?" I said, slapping that particular area on his body._

_"I love these shorts." His fingers slipped behind the elastic waistband of my white shorts and he flipped the thin straps of my thong._

_"I know you do," I whispered. My tongue flicked across his lips, and his mouth attacked mine, demanding - and gaining - possession. He backed me onto the wobbly table and before it could spill, I ordered Bobby to move the cup of coffee._

_His hands were all over me, stealthily shoving my shorts and underwear down until they were hanging loosely from one ankle, never disconnecting our mouths. I heard his belt buckle jingle, and then he grabbed my thighs and lifted me onto the table, placing himself between my legs. Incredible followed that. Amazing. Fucking earth-shattering. Bobby was by far the best lay I'd ever had._

_"Bobby," I breathed, our foreheads pressed together. His eyes burned as they imprisoned me. "God." I clawed at the shirt on his back, listening to the threads stretch as my nails scraped along the material._

_Bobby cupped my face, kissed my lips, and gazed down at me. "I love you," he said._

_

* * *

_

I cried out, clutching my head that was now throbbing with a hand that was full of pins and needles. I'd fallen off the couch, probably jarred awake from the dream. And what a lying dream it was. He had been gone all night and the next morning, he had been arrested for assault, but no one had dropped the charges and he'd gone to prison for a year. No sex, no declaration of love. In fact, I couldn't remember a time Bobby had ever told me he loved me, nor could I recall a time I'd ever said it. It's not something we did, not who we were.

It wasn't enough that we were stuck in the same city until he decided to leave; no, now he had to infiltrate my dreams, the cocksucker. I opened my phone: thirty-seven missed calls and thirty-seven voicemails, all of which would go unchecked. I had to go to work, and I would not be able to do my job if I had screaming voicemails stuck in my head all day - I already had to deal with the dream. And the fact that sometime, somewhere, Bobby had to know the truth about me.


	4. Annihilation

**Where'd all my reviewers go? :( Got a lot more story alerts, which I appreciate, but my reviewers seem to have disappeared. Come back! XD**

Thanks for reading!

* * *

"Well, I don't think it's anything serious," I told sixteen-year-old Sarah Cromartie, "but, uh ..." I made sure she was looking into my eyes before I continued. "You'll be using condoms next time, yes?" She rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," she shrugged.

"I'm serious, Sarah. It's probably just a bladder infection, but it could have been a lot worse." She still didn't seem to care or grasp the ramifications of having sex with all the boys she had in the past few months without protection. "You come in here with something worse, like an STD, I'm tellin' your mom." Legally I couldn't, but I was willing to go double or nothing that she didn't know that.

Sarah's eyes widened. "I came here because Maggie said you were cool!" she exclaimed.

"I am cool," I said. "I'm cool in the way that I don't want you to get your ass infected with something that could kill you."

"STDs don't kill," she replied nervously, gaze falling to the bland floor. I opened a nearby cabinet, snatched a few pamphlets on sexually transmitted diseases and pregnancy, and shoved them into her hands.

"Read," I commanded. "I'll be back when I get the results of your urine test." I left her alone with her thoughts, closing the door, and then listened to see if she called her friend to complain about the service. Silence followed.

I smiled to myself as I headed toward the nurse's desk to find out about my next patient. Carter Quinn was in Room Two for a physical. I'd seen him when he'd injured his throwing arm during one of the last games of the season, and he was terrified he wouldn't be able to play football again. I was glad to be the one to tell him it was just a strain and he'd be fine for the following game. A good kid.

Looking through his file, I was only wasting time before I saw him. I was able to ward off thinking about the dream until now. As I stood at the desk, I felt Bobby's hands on my hips and his warm breath on my neck and his soft words in my ear. _I love you_. There was a time, back when we were dating, when I never felt like I needed to hear those three words from him because he always found ways to show me he loved me. But last night, in the dream that plagued me now, they'd meant something to me. A lot. I wanted to hear it again, but not in a dream.

Why can't we be normal? I asked myself, eyes narrowing thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Why can't we be two adults and sit down and have an intelligent conversation? Why can't we speak to each other without screaming insults and throwing punches?

Because then we wouldn't be normal. He wouldn't be Bobby Mercer, and I wouldn't be Abby Truelove, and we probably never would have gotten together in the first place. Though things were obviously horrible between us, I didn't regret that we ever met or dated.

"Hey, Abby?" I turned to the receptionist, Carter's file in my hands. "You have, um, a visitor."

"Patient?" I asked.

She hesitated. "I don't ... think so."

I leaned over the desk, my feet nearly leaving the floor with the effort, and peeked through the small window where patients signed in to be seen. The air escaped my lungs, which troubled my balance, and I came close to planting my face on the other side of the desk. Carter Quinn's file slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor with ridiculous volume, and Bobby turned at the noise. I couldn't react because I was so stunned that he'd found me at _work_, stunned by the animosity in his eyes as they pierced through me, creating a hostile void in my chest. Oh God, I thought, he's gonna fucking kill me.

I had to pull it together. He couldn't see my reaction on my face because he would feed off of it, and I would never have a chance to mentally survive the confrontation that was about to take place. I steeled myself, planting my feet so I wouldn't run, slowing my breathing, and clenching my teeth. Nothing could be done for the redness in my cheeks, but maybe he'd chalk that up to indignation instead of fear.

Bobby stormed through the door that separated the waiting room from the exam rooms, slamming it as hard as he could. The floor shook. He stood before me in all his rageful glory; gray sweatshirt, jeans, work boots, hair slicked back. I couldn't decide if I liked this new look with his hair - I missed the days when he let it lay flat, soft, and long. I'd spend hours running my fingers through it until it became greasy from my skin's natural oils, which gave us a reason to take a shower together. Oh, memories.

"What the f-!" I started to yell, cutting myself off when I remembered where I was. I lowered my voice to a whisper and continued, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You a big doctor now?" Bobby asked pretentiously, nodding his head. Inhaling deeply, I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth. He had to find out at some point, and I was a little thankful that I hadn't had to tell him.

"I'm not a doctor, Bobby," I said, "I'm a nurse practitioner. There's a difference."

"Oh, ooh, excuse me all to hell. Remember you're talkin' to a fuckin' dumbass." I clenched my teeth.

"Let's talk in my office," I told him.

"I don't wanna fuckin' talk in your office!" Bobby shouted. I jumped. He kicked Carter Quinn's folder, sending papers flying across the floor. We'd gained a crowd. "I wanna talk right here!"

"What is it you wanna talk about?" I retorted, slowly but surely losing control of my fury. "What's so important that you had to come to my _work_ and tell me?"

"What the fuck do you think?" Bobby hollered, arms outstretched. "Did you even go to Florida?" He pointed a long finger at me.

My immediate reaction was to look down, a sign of guilt, obviously. I cleared my throat, shaking my head and shrugged. Honestly, what was there for me to say? I didn't know if Jerry had told him everything, or anything at all, but Bobby wasn't as stupid as he thought he was. And I was done being quiet.

"You fuckin' lyin' bitch," he accused, his tone full of acid, shaking his head disbelievingly. "Couldn't just tell me to fuck off. No, you had me _leave town_!"

"Keep your fucking voice down," I growled. I smacked his hand out of my face, fully prepared to punch him if I needed to.

"Fuck you!" Bobby howled. "Fuck _you_, Abigail!" His face was in mine, exactly where it needed to be for me to punch it, but I restrained myself somehow. He'd already disrupted my place of employment; I didn't need to, as well.

Just then security entered the office, rushing immediately to incapacitate the man screaming at the top of his lungs and undeniably causing a scene. They grabbed Bobby's arms, effectively immobilizing any attack he might be considering, and started lugging him back toward the door he'd blustered through. Bobby fought them, cursing at them all the way and scowling at me, calling me every name in the book, exploiting all the offensive words he could come up with. None of the things he called me insulted me, but the fact that he'd interfered with my work had me seeing red.

And the worst was yet to come.

* * *

"You're firin' me?" I bellowed.

"We can't have disruptions like that in our building."

"It won't happen again! He got it out of his system and now he's done! He won't be back!"

"You can't guarantee that. Nobody can guarantee anything with the _Michigan Mauler_."

"... you know him?"

"Is that supposed to be funny, Ms. Truelove? Bobby Mercer is a household name in Detroit. You might have mentioned that you used to date him when you interviewed for this job."

"We dated almost seven years ago!"

"Just the same."

"Fine. Fire me. But I'm gonna open my own practice, and I'll take my patients with me."

"Goodbye, Ms. Truelove."

* * *

I came to a squealing halt outside the Mercer home, the tires skidding on the ice and nearly causing a collision between my Mustang and Bobby's boat of a car. Stomping out, I scraped my key across the body of his car, snarling as I went, elated with the screeching sound my vandalism produced. The asshole. Bobby hadn't been in town two damn days and he'd already turned my life completely upside down! The audacity he had to barge into my _work_ was what ultimately brought me here of all places. After I'd spoken with my boss, of course.

Instead of knocking, I kicked the front door as hard as I could - sneakers permitting - three times. I wanted so badly for Bobby to answer the door to a quick jab to the face - if he didn't, he would be alerted to my presence, the element of surprise a thing of the past. Oh, I wanted to kill him. Who the hell did he think he was?

To my unparalleled disappointment, Jack was the one standing behind the door after it opened.

"Where is he?" I demanded caustically. My eyes burned Jack, as evident by the uncertainty on his face, and he transferred his weight from one foot to the other.

"Who?" he chose to say. He didn't want Bobby to blame him for whatever was about to happen.

"Move." Jack stepped aside, sighing, looking everywhere but into my eyes. Good thing. Who knows what he might have encountered looking into my eyes?

I stamped through the living room as I heard Bobby's voice emanating from the kitchen, getting closer and closer, until suddenly we were face-to-face for the second time today. Too many times already we'd met and argued. Too many times already the mere sight of him made me sick. Too many times already I wished he would kiss me and not yell at me. Upon seeing him and feeling him so near, I acted on instinct and the distress he'd put me through today, and I swung at him with my right fist. He ducked readily, arms flying up, and he laughed. Without thinking, I retaliated with my left fist, which was far less dominant than my right, but I used the momentum from the previous miss and hoped not to miss this time. My knuckles connected with Bobby's jaw, though with far less power than I would have liked. He spun around and continued to laugh.

"Son of a bitch!" I shrieked, throwing myself onto him, which _finally_ knocked him to the floor, me on top. "You got me _fired_!"

"Get this crazy bitch off a' me!" Bobby yelled. He wasn't laughing anymore. Hands were grabbing at my arms and around my waist, and I was hoisted into the air, kicking, screaming, and punching.

"Fucking asshole!" I wailed, tears brimming my eyes. I wasn't sad - impossible - I was livid.

"Calm down," Jack said into my ear, and the anguish in his tone made me want to do just as he said. But staring at Bobby's face maintained my violent behavior, and I fought Jack and whoever else - Angel? - that much more.

"Yeah, calm down, Abby," Bobby said patronizingly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and I noticed a small dab of blood on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "You're a doctor. I'm sure the demand for doctors is pretty high around Detroit."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I beseeched. My feet weren't on the ground as Jack held me tightly, afraid I might strike his brother again. I wondered when the hell Jack had gotten strong enough to lift _anything_ other than a cigarette or his damn guitar. "Why are you so fuckin' selfish?"

"Oh, _I'm_ selfish?" Bobby retorted, gesturing toward himself. "You were the one who fuckin' lied, Abby! Told me you couldn't come with me 'cause you were goin' to Florida to stay with family, and you didn't even fuckin' go! You stayed here and made yourself all kinds a' money! So who's the selfish one again?"

I sucked air deep into my lungs and squirmed out of Jack's grip, assuring him I was fine and I wasn't planning on ambushing Bobby. I could've been lying; I didn't know at this point. My mouth was flying a mile a minute before I realized I was speaking.

"Goddamn you, Bobby," I sighed, hands on my hips. My lips curled and I licked the corner of my mouth. "Before you left, you had enough money to support _yourself_ for less than a week! I did you a favor by not going!"

"Oh yeah, that's rich," Bobby nodded cynically. "If that was true, why didn't you just tell me that? Huh?"

"Because you would've talked me out of it," I replied genuinely. No point in yelling anymore because everything was about to come out, and I wouldn't have a voice left if I continued to holler. "You would've said, _fuck all that and get your ass in the car_. And I would have." I heard him speaking those words in my brain now just as I had so many years ago.

Bobby rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"If both of us couldn't get out of town, I wanted you to be the one to go," I went on. "If you'd stayed in Detroit any longer, you would've gotten yourself killed." I held a hand up. "It was always about you, Bobby, and apparently it still fucking is!"

"Always about me," Bobby repeated, smirking. "Like you fuckin' cared."

I stood there, staring at him, him at me, and finally the tears fell. This time they were tears of despair. Was he saying these things because he wanted to hurt me or because he truly believed that nothing I did seven years ago revolved around him?

"I didn't care?" I murmured, droplets of saltwater streaking down my cheeks at short intervals. "I didn't love you?" The muscles in Bobby's cheeks flexed as he grimaced, his dark eyes fixed on me. "You're right, I didn't. I also didn't stuff the last fifty bucks I had in your bag before you left." Bobby's expression fell just a bit. "I didn't ... sleep in the clothes you forgot on _your_ side of the bed for the first _month_ after you left. I didn't need your brothers to bring me groceries every week because I couldn't remember to buy them. I didn't fucking _need_ Johnnie Walker to put me to sleep every night!"

"Abby," Jack's voice was almost inaudible. He placed his rather large hand on my back, and I reached back, my hand upon his chest. No doubt he remembered those horrible weeks, though he was only a teenager at the time.

"I did need Evelyn," I resumed, still with my eyes on Bobby. "She put my drunk ass under lock and key and told me that if I didn't go to school, she'd call you and tell you to come back."

Bobby's eyes averted briefly to the floor, then back to me. "Ma didn't know where I was."

"I didn't know that," I said. "She was very convincing." I dropped my hand from Jack's body, but his remained. "And you think I got money? Please. You got any fuckin' idea how many school and bank loans I'll be paying off until the day I die?" I sniffed. "I'm sick of your mouth, Bobby. You don't know nothin' about me now."

After another revitalizing breath, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and glanced around the room. Angel had been the one to assist Jack in pulling me off Bobby. Good to know he made it.

"Well, thanks for having me over," I joked, despite the situation, though I didn't laugh. Neither did anyone else. I turned to Jack and pulled him into an unyielding embrace, pressing my lips to his cheek. "Don't take any of his shit," I told him, in reference to his older brother. Jack smiled and nodded. I hugged Angel quickly, too, and Jerry, whom I hadn't seen during the entire confrontation.

"Don't let him do anything stupid," I begged Jerry. He looked at me and nodded.

Unfortunately, there was no one on this Earth that could stop Bobby from doing anything stupid.


	5. Wagon

**Thanks for the reviews and story alerts and even author alerts! You guys make my day. I'm glad you're enjoying this story; you're the reason I started writing in the first place.**

* * *

Jack strummed at his guitar idly, staring at the floor. After today's events, he worried about Abby; worried that she'd do something stupid. Bobby had gotten her fired, which was a low blow, but Jack didn't believe Bobby had done it on purpose–the man simply couldn't control his temper. She'd been fired and she'd come here to kick Bobby's ass, which, in Jack's opinion, she'd accomplished. He smirked, sucking hard on the cigarette between his lips. Although not the first time Jack witnessed Abby all but leveling his big brother, it was still just as funny.

He missed Mom. She was the better referee whenever Abby and Bobby got into one of their cage matches. Chuckling, he remembered the time Ma had put them in separate corners of the room for exactly an hour to _think about what they'd done_–trashed the house on Abby's twenty-first birthday with empty beer and liquor bottles, a broken coffee table, and the happy couple with matching his and her black eyes. Bobby claimed he'd never laid a finger on Abby, and Abby couldn't remember a single second of that night, so what really happened would never be known. Bobby never condoned hitting women, but he'd not been tested by a woman like Abigail Truelove, who clearly loved solving her problems by throwing her fists. When the time outs were over, Bonnie and Clyde shook hands, grinning at each other, and all was well.

As much as he tried, Jack couldn't fully understand the relationship his older brother had with the only girl Bobby ever brought home to meet Ma. Sure, they were basically the same person, and Bobby had been quite affectionate toward Abby–hugging her when she arrived home, kissing her in the middle of the living room as they passed one another, holding her protectively on the couch during a movie–but they argued more often than not, and they'd been thrown out of plenty of bars due to their no holds barred boxing matches. Jack couldn't see Bobby with anybody else, though; couldn't see any other woman in the universe as willing as Abby to put up with his shit. Seeing Abby with somebody else, on the other hand ... well, he didn't want to get into that.

When he couldn't take the worry and anxiety anymore, Jack scratched his head, mussed his hair, and tossed the guitar to the foot of the bed. Bobby was asleep on the couch next to a coffee table littered with vacant beer bottles - dead soldiers, Bobby called them. Stealthily, Jack stole the keys to Bobby's car from his brother's leather jacket and headed to Abby's.

Sitting in front of the apartment, however, Jack did not immediately get out.

"Fuck," he mumbled, lighting a cigarette. He should go in, he knew that, just to be sure she was okay and she hadn't given into temptation following her horrible day. But there were so many things wrong with this situation, so many reasons why he _shouldn't_ go in, all of which he wouldn't even admit to himself.

Jack tossed the spent cigarette out the window, exhaled a long plume of smoke, and cursed once more before exiting Bobby's car. Nervously, he knocked on Abby's door, shoving his frigid hands into the pockets of his jeans. Fuck, he never should have come. What the hell was he thinking?

The door opened before he could rethink his position and flee the scene. Abby was there, resting her head against the door. Her eyes were glazed over and slow with the blinking and she smiled sluggishly. Drunk as hell.

"Jack," she sighed, pleased. Jack said nothing. "Have I told you how ... _happy_ I am that you're back?" She snickered. "I totally rhymed and didn't even mean to."

Jack stared down at her, more than a foot the difference in their height, and still couldn't think of anything to say for a long time.

"Can I come in?" he finally asked. Abby giggled and stepped back, allowing Jack to enter.

"Where's your brother?" she questioned, rubbing her eye tiredly. She swayed when her eyes were closed, a clear sign of intoxication. Jack wondered how much she'd had to drink.

"Asleep on the couch." He glanced around the small apartment. Things still looked the same from when Bobby lived here, just cleaner. His eyes returned to Abby, and she was gazing longingly up at him. Jack had no idea what was going through her inebriated mind, but he recognized that look of yearning even if he hadn't seen it on her face before. "Been drinkin'?" he queried.

Abby's brows rose and she inhaled through her nostrils. "I might've," she slurred innocently.

"Johnnie Walker?" His voice was deep, concerned, and his hands were still stuffed in his pockets.

"You know me well, Jackie Boy," Abby smiled. She stumbled into the kitchen, and each step taken caused Jack to wince as he waited for her to trip, fall, and break something. Despite the freezing weather, she was wearing only a pair of shorts and a tank top. No doubt the liquor had warmed her insides. "You gonna have a drink with me?" she wondered.

"You shouldn't be drinkin' at all, Abby," Jack told her. She laughed and grabbed an extra glass from the cabinet anyway, filling it to the brim with Johnnie Black. Then she filled her own glass and plopped into a chair at the table.

"It's a little late for that, Jack," she sighed heavily. "This here is my second bottle." She tapped the bottle with her fingernail. "_What_ a tasty beverage."

Dejectedly, Jack occupied the chair in front of her. He inspected the glass of whiskey she'd slid across the table to him before surrendering and swallowing a massive gulp. The liquid burned on the way down his throat, and his face puckered.

"Been a while, Jack?" Abby asked, leaning back in her chair. Jack looked at her.

"What's wrong, Abby?"

Abby snorted. "Good one," she pointed. She sipped leisurely at her drink, grinning listlessly.

Jack found it almost impossible to look into her glassy eyes for too long. It hurt him to know she'd reverted back to her old ways because of his idiot brother. Jack certainly didn't hate Bobby, but he did hate how oblivious he was to the world around him and the way he mentally wounded the people who loved him the most.

"I'm out of a job," Abby garbled, "And it seems Bobby Mercer is on some kind a' rampage, bound and goddamn determined to ruin as many lives as possible." She shrugged offhandedly. Jack was pleasantly surprised at the perfectly coherent statement out of Abby's wildly drunken brain. "Anyway," she exhaled, "I thought I'd drink a little."

"A little?" Jack sought, indicating the bottle between them.

Abby exhaled. She set her elbow on the table, head on her hand, and her dark bangs flipped out in all directions.

"Is there something you wanted, Jack?" she asked exasperatedly. "I'm sort of busy here."

"Doing what?" Jack vexed. "Drowning?"

"Fuck off, Jack," Abby fumed, glowering, flicking a finger. Her eyes were red and surrounded by pink skin and their particular jade hue provided her a downright daunting expression. If Jack were Bobby right now, he might have been scared that she'd punch him. But being that he was Jack, he knew he was safe.

"No can do," Jack refused. He removed his leather jacket, dropped it on the back of his chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt–he needed to buy some time while he worked up the courage to do what he was about to. Abby might hate him for it tonight, but she'd thank him in the morning. He couldn't sit back and watch her continue to drink, continue to walk down the path that had nearly gotten her killed so many years ago. If Mom was here, she'd do it and she wouldn't hesitate like he was.

Jack slammed his fist on the table, rocking the glasses and half-full bottle of whiskey, and Abby jumped back, perplexed by the sudden rattling surrounding her. Cashing in on her momentary confusion, Jack grabbed the bottle and twisted the lid off and began to empty the contents into the sink. Abby was on him in seconds.

"Jack!" she squealed, banging her fists on his back. "What the fuck are you doing? Don't _waste_ it!" Jack disregarded her with his free arm behind him as a failing attempt to keep her from snatching the bottle back. "Jack, stop! I need it!"

Jack whirled around. _I need it_. She didn't fucking need it. She was the strongest woman he'd ever met, next to Evelyn Mercer. He shoved her away delicately, enough so that she wouldn't get injured when he hurled the bottle at the wall. They watched together–Abby's eyes wide, horrified, her jaw on the floor–as it ruptured into dozens of pieces, spewing the brown liquid that was Abby's crutch onto the wall where it trickled down to the floor.

"Ah, Jack!" Abby exploded, jamming her hands into his chest, creating a painful meeting between his back and the edge of the sink. "Why are you even here? This isn't any of your business!"

"'Cause Ma can't be!" Jack countered. Abby looked up at him, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You think Ma would just sit back and let you drink yourself stupid again?"

Abby respired, shoulders hunching, and her features contorted into pain. "She's the only one that cared," she wept. "She's all I had after you left." She combed her hands through her hair, fingers interlocking at the back of her neck. "Now there's nobody to care." Her words were beginning to jumble again, one overlapping the other.

"I'm here," Jack reminded her, "and I care." He couldn't remember a time he'd ever spoken so earnestly–Evelyn's funeral not included–and he was positive the look on his face said as much. Abby seemed just as taken aback by his admission, gaping, gulping, stray tears still falling down her cheeks. Jack wanted to hug her, but he refrained from doing so in case she still wanted to hit him.

"You owe me twenty bucks for the bottle," Abby broke the silence, arms falling to her sides. Jack smiled and shrugged.

"Put it on my tab," he said. Neither of them could rightly remember how much money Abby had spent on buying Jack alcohol before he turned twenty-one.

Abby sighed, returning to the table in a different chair. "What the hell am I supposed to drink now?" she asked, wounded.

Setting one hand on the back of the chair and one hand on the table, Jack leaned forward, closer and closer, until Abby abandoned being stubborn and finally met his eyes.

"Coffee," Jack covertly replied. He smelled the whiskey on her breath and the fruits and flowers in her hair, and his eyes squeezed shut. She still smelled the same even after so many years, and Jack was repulsed by himself for remembering the scent so vividly and the reason _why_ he remembered so vividly.

"Jack," Abby whispered. Jack fought to keep his breathing under control and his hormones in check. He didn't say anything, hoping she would continue without his encouragement and hoping she didn't say what he desperately wanted her to. "Do you have cigarettes?"

Letting out a sigh of relief, Jack pulled out his small bag of tobacco and package of papers and dropped them on the table. Abby's blank stare had him sitting down to put together a cigarette for her.

"Got a girlfriend, Jack?" Abby questioned faintly. She folded her arms on the table and set her chin atop her hands.

"Nope," Jack huskily said, lips barely moving as he wet the end of the paper before deftly rolling the cigarette into the correct shape. He didn't look at her.

"Got a boyfriend?" Jack scowled, tilting his head. Abby laughed. "You walked into it." Jack shook his head and handed her the erected cigarette, which he had to pick up off the table after it fell from her lips. He put it in his own mouth, lit it, and placed it back between her lips. Abby's cheeks hollowed as she sucked hard, and then exhaled a seemingly never-ending cloud of smoke.

"I'll put the coffee on," Jack offered, starting to stand.

"I don't have any coffee," Abby confessed, and Jack fell back into his seat. She inhaled the cigarette once more and spoke as she let it out, "What now?"

"Now ... now you go to bed."

"No, I mean ... what now? What am I supposed to do now with no job, no drinking, no Evelyn, and Bobby fucking Mercer living across town?" She looked at Jack, presuming he had all the answers for her. Jack wished he had the answers. In a way, he did–according to him–but he would never suggest it; he knew better.

"Smoke the hell out of my cigarettes?" he joked, watching as Abby dropped the spent cigarette into Jack's whiskey glass.

"I should go to bed," she decided, her words floating through the empty air by way of used nicotine.

"Yes, you should," Jack quickly agreed, standing. Abby wasn't so expeditious, and Jack found himself helping her to her unsteady feet. She snickered, her face pressed into Jack's side, her arm solid around his waist to maintain vertical posture. They climbed the staircase together, Abby's hand a constant on the banister.

"You're staying, right?" she asked apprehensively. "Here? I mean, it's ... really cold outside, and you really just suck at driving anyway."

"I don't suck at driving," Jack disagreed. When they came to the top of the stairs, he let Abby lead them to the correct door to her bedroom. He mostly avoided all the actions and consequences that threatened to rule over his mind, and the ones that did manage to give him pause, he tossed them out instantly in favor of concentrating on how to get Abby into her bed without actually _doing_ it.

"You got pulled over for driving too slow, Jack," Abby prompted.

"The speed limit is a _limit_, okay, not a _goal_!"

The two laughed together as Abby released her grip on Jack and practically fell into the full size bed that wasn't made from the last time she'd slept in it. She sat up, hugging her legs to her chest, and laid her head upon her knees. Knowing that she wanted him to, Jack reluctantly took a seat beside her and carded a hand through his hair. He could deal with this. Deep breaths, blank mind, hands to yourself, he thought. But the other side of him, the wanna-be rockstar, hinted at the fact that she was plastered and looking for comfort and would so freely allow him to take advantage of her if he showed the slightest interest. He wished now that he'd thought of Abby like a sister during the years she'd dated Bobby instead of just Bobby's hot girlfriend.

"Everything came back to me, you know?" Abby abruptly cracked the silence. Jack's eyes moved in her direction. "When I saw him at the funeral." Bobby. "It was like he never left. I fucking swear for a second I thought we were goin' home together." She scratched roughly at the back of her head. "I was over him, Jack. I dated other guys, I slept with other guys–" Jack cleared his throat, looking down. "–and I never thought about him. I never pretended they were him. Most of them, anyway." She sniffed, and Jack's gaze returned to her face.

"But now," Abby went on, "he's all I think about. I _dream_ about the fucker." Her legs dropped to the mattress. "And I'm worried about him. I know why he's here." Jack shrugged, nonchalant, but he made the mistake of looking at the wall. "Don't let him get himself killed or hurt, okay, Jackie? And don't let him get you or your brothers in trouble."

Deciding indefinitely against this conversation and where it might lead to–Jack confessing everything he knows, no matter how little or insignificant–he playfully pushed her shoulder, and she fell back, sighing contentedly as she curled onto her side. Jack pulled the blankets up to her elbows, and she reached out, touching his knee. Jack jumped, rolling his eyes.

"Thank you, Jackie," she breathed. "My sweet Jackie Boy."

Jack grimaced, knowing that's all he would ever be to her.

* * *

I woke to the relentless sun punching me in the face and I groaned, rolling away from the window. My heart was pounding in my head right next to the jabbing pains in my brain, and my stomach was nervous, though growling for its necessary nutrients–I couldn't remember if I ate the day before. Slowly I sat up so as not to cause myself any dizziness and my hand landed on something bendable and glossy.

Pictures. So many pictures strewn across the bed, and I didn't recall tearing them out from the box I'd hidden them in within the monstrous disaster that was my closet. Essentially, they were pictures of me and Bobby, but some showed only Bobby, and a few others were the rest of the Mercer Brothers. And Evelyn. The first photo I grabbed was a personal favorite; my birthday when Bobby had gifted me the Mustang. Evelyn had snapped the moment just as I'd opened my eyes to the car before me; face lit up, hands over my mouth, and Bobby standing nearby with his arms crossed over his chest and a rare, pleased smile gracing his lips. The next picture had taken me and Bobby by surprise the day after my twenty-first birthday; Jack said he'd wanted to capture the Kodak moment he called the black eyes Bobby and I shared.

Shoving the rest of the pictures out of my way, I climbed out of bed. I pulled my hair back, visited the bathroom, and headed downstairs to assess the damage of last night's drunken haze. To my surprise, I found Jack Mercer in my kitchen, out like a light, seated awkwardly at the table with his head on his arm and drool falling from his mouth onto a piece of paper. A pen was in his right hand, and he'd probably been writing lyrics before passing out. Sliding the paper furtively out from beneath Jack's cheek, I expected to find song lyrics about a filthy drunk who had nothing in her life but a damn fine brand new microwave.

_I'll go ahead and pour myself a drink, I really couldn't care less what you think_ was scribbled in Jack's chicken scratch handwriting at an angle near the bottom corner of the paper. Why didn't he use the lines? _You might as well save your goodbyes, we can give this train wreck one last ride_ were the crooked lines in the middle of the sheet. At a vertical angle, he'd written: _I can hardly see what's in front of me cuz the vodka's runnin' on empty. I can't stay sober if it's over_. I would have smiled at his spelling of _cause_, but these words were hitting the nail on the fucking head. And at the very bottom of the page, where the circle of drool was threatening to wash it away: _I don't wanna know it's over, so save your goodbye kiss_.

"Jackie Mercer," I mumbled, disbelieving, plopping into the chair beside him. How the hell was this kid so damn perceptive? How did he know _exactly_ how I'd felt last night? Had I said something to him? Had I cried on his shoulder and confessed my inner most thoughts and feelings? Fuck, I hope not.

I needed a cigarette. I retrieved a delinquent pack of can't-believe-they-still-make-these Lucky Strikes from my jacket in the living room, came back into the kitchen, and kicked the side of Jack's chair before sitting down again. The kid jumped awake, and I laughed as he wiped his mouth, rubbed his eyes, and combed his fingers through his chaotic hair. When he finally realized where he was and who'd awoken him, he snatched up the paper with the lyrics, folded it, and stuffed it in his jeans pocket.

"What're you doin' here, Jack?" I asked, lighting a cigarette.

"You don't remember last night?" Jack asked. I watched him speak to be sure he was the one with the deep voice. Jack Mercer had gone and become a man somehow.

"Should I?" I wondered.

"I came over to make sure you weren't drinkin'."

I breathed out a gush of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Guess you were kind a' late." I sighed, reluctant. "You didn't have to sleep here."

"You asked me to," Jack said. I remembered no such thing, but asking someone to stay over when I was drunk wasn't unlike me.

"No, I mean you didn't have to sleep _here_. I _have_ a couch." I pointed to the piece of furniture in the living room with the two fingers holding the cigarette, and Jack chuckled.

"I didn't want to drool on your cushions," he lied.

"Did I–?"

My question was cut off and forgotten with a knock at the door. I froze, Jack froze, and we stared at one another until the knocking persisted. We both knew who it was. Jack had been gone all night with a borrowed car likely belonging to Bobby Mercer, and Bobby Mercer had come to collect. I stamped the cigarette out in an ashtray on my way to the door and hesitated before opening it. Our eyes met, and I slammed the door in his face.

"It's for you," I said to Jack, promptly returning to my seat to light another already much needed cigarette. Jack was barely out of his chair and the door opened. I watched Bobby stroll in out of the corner of my eye as if the bastard still fucking lived here.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbled, shocked. "Ain't changed a fuckin' thing in here."

My hands shook as I ripped a cigarette from the soft pack and my thumb was far too unsteady to produce a flame from the lighter. Jackie was there then, lighting it with his own device, and I looked up at him, thanking him through guarded eyes. I had to look anywhere but at Bobby. I didn't want him to know how weak he made me, how much power he still had over me. How with just a few words–_like you fuckin' cared_–he could make me run so quickly back to the sauce.

"Jackie, put your grand theft auto ass in my car and take it back home 'fore I beat you," Bobby threatened.

"I'll see you later, Abby," Jack promised after he'd slipped his jacket on. I held out my arms for a hug. His embrace was warm and secure, much like Bobby's had been, and he pressed his face into my neck. Sweet, sweet Jackie Mercer.

I didn't thank him for staying. I should've. But I was far too concerned with Bobby standing in the middle of _my_ living room to remember something as mundane as appreciation.

I focused all my attention and anger and fear on the cigarette in my mouth; hitting it so hard, I nearly choked to death. Bobby didn't say anything after that, nor did he immediately move from the spot in the living room. Almost finished with my cigarette, I worried I'd have to go through the trouble of lighting another without Jack here to assist me. That's when Bobby strolled toward me, stopped a foot away, and dropped a bag and a cup with a straw in it on the table. From McDonald's. I gulped. Back in the days of Bonnie and Clyde, following a night of heavy drinking, I'd roll over at nine every morning, like clockwork, and poke Bobby until he woke up. He'd sit up, shove his feet into his shoes, reach back and pat whatever body part of mine his hand came to first, and he'd drive to McDonald's for an Egg McMuffin, two hash browns, and an orange juice. Never anything for himself. Obviously he knew me well and he'd known I was going to drink last night. He also evidently knew that my drinking was his fault.

The bag sitting before me was an act of peace. A treaty. Maybe even a form of apology. Whatever the reason, he meant it–Bobby wouldn't pick his ass up out of bed before noon for just anything.

I cleared my throat, composing myself. "You can go now," I said. Bobby shook his head, laughing under his breath, and grabbed the handles on the breakfast bag. "Leave the bag."

Bobby exited the apartment without the food and without saying a word.

Opening the bag, I found my usual order–Egg McMuffin, hash browns–as well as the receipt. Looking it over, I discovered that he hadn't bought anything for himself. The whole trip to McDonald's had been entirely for me.

Confusing bastard.

* * *

**Lyrics from "Bliss (I Don't Wanna Know)" by Hinder.**


	6. Think

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_

* * *

_

He knew she had something special lined up for him. She'd disappeared nearly half an hour ago, feeding him the shittiest lie about having to go to the bathroom. He couldn't decide what it was, though, what she had planned. Not a cake, he hoped, unless Abby jumped out of it completely naked or dressed in something skanky. No, on second thought, he didn't want any of these assholes to see his girlfriend naked. They wanted to, and that was enough to piss Bobby off.

_As he waited, Bobby noticed something strange. Something utterly fucked up: he wasn't having any fun, and the fun had stopped right around the time Abby had gone to the bathroom. His friends were stupid and drunk, which should have made for perfect entertainment, but he couldn't even laugh. In the back of his mind he wondered where Abby was, what she was doing, who she was talking to, and if all the guys he knew where accounted for. He couldn't help the jealousy and suspicion, even if he had no real reason to suspect Abby of cheating._

_Bobby was pulled backward in his chair, the legs squeaking along the floor, and he was spun around to face an empty space in the middle of the bar. Angel slapped him on the shoulder, laughing as he went to stand by Jeremiah. Jackie was too young to get into the bar, but not for a lack of trying. Abby had begged Johnny G to allow Jack inside._

_"__**Come here, big boy**__." A sultry female voice came over the speakers suddenly, followed by some kind of bluesy music._

_Looking around, Bobby noticed the crowd in front of him beginning to part, and Abby emerged from the sea of people. Dressed in a fucking cop uniform; hat, sunglasses (which Bobby was almost positive belonged to him), nightstick, boots that came up to her knees. Sexy as hell. Bobby couldn't care less about his birthday celebration anymore, all he wanted to do was get his girlfriend home and fuck her on the nearest flat surface. But with her looking like that, they'd be lucky to make it out of the parking lot._

_Abby began to dance, tortuously slow, swaying her hips in time with the music, using the nightstick as a prop._

_"__**You've been a bad, bad boy**__," Abby mouthed along with the words, tapping the end of the nightstick against the palm of her hand. Her lips were bright red and full and smirking, and Bobby watched hungrily as her tongue touched the corner of her mouth. "__**I'm gonna take my time so enjoy**__."_

_She advanced on him, standing between his spread legs, and she bent over, placing the nightstick at the back of his neck, giving him the most perfect view of her chest. "__**There's no need to feel no shame**__**...**__**relax and sip upon my champagne**__."_

_"'__**Cause I wanna give you a little taste**__–" she drummed the weapon on his chest gently "–__**of the sugar below my waist, you nasty boy**__." Abby tossed the nightstick to some random onlooker and she was suddenly on her knees in front of him, biting her bottom lip, brazenly brushing her fingers through her hair. Bobby drank in the sight of her perfect neck and the vanishing bruise he'd left there several days ago, her jaw line, and her lips as she licked them provocatively._

_Abby removed the glasses, making a show of tucking them between her breasts and she tipped the hat backward until it fell on the floor._

_"__**I'll give you some ooh-la-la**__," she exaggeratedly mouthed the last word, smiling as she did so, and she crawled - fucking _slithered_ - toward him, ending up between his knees. Bobby wasn't sure how much of this he wanted his friends or brothers to see. Abby was his to enjoy, not everybody else's to fantasize about. _

_"__**Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?**__" Bobby didn't know what the fuck that meant, but he'd do just about anything Abby wanted him to at this point. The only woman who ever had a hold on him. A serious hold, anyway._

_"__**I got you breakin' into a sweat**__," the song, and consequently Abby, went on. "__**Got you hot, bothered, and wet, you nasty boy**__." She strategically placed her hands on his thighs, lifting herself off the floor, remaining bent over. The bastard that was behind her was sure as hell getting a show, and Bobby made it a personal mission of his to remember the guy's face so he could mangle it a little at the end of the night._

_"__**Oh, baby, for all it's worth ... I swear I'll be the first to blow ... your ... mind ...**__" As she moved upward, slinking up his body, her nose brushed a bulge in the crotch of his pants and the bottom of her teeth clinked against his belt buckle. "__**Now, if you're ready, come and get me ... I'll give you that hot, sweet, sexy ... lovin'.**__"_

_Bobby moaned deep in the back of his throat, but it went unnoticed, thank fuckin' God._

_"__**Hush now, don't say a word**__–" Abby pressed her forefinger to Bobby's lips, and he felt his eyes glaze over. "__**I'm gonna give you what you deserve ... now you better give me a little taste ... put your icing on my cake, you nasty boy**__."_

_Bobby could smell the Winterfresh on her breath and the distinct scent of her skin and perfume he'd bought (stolen) for her. He felt her thighs on his and her forearms on his shoulders as she grasped the back of the chair for balance. Abby's hips began to rotate in a perfect circle, then back and forth, then back to the circle. Bobby involuntarily closed his eyes and gulped. There was no shielding his reactions anymore. He was far too gone to really care about his hardass exterior._

_"__**Oh, no, oh, there I go again ... I need a spankin' ... 'cause I've ... been ... bad ...**__"_

_Well, if she was going to tease him ... Bobby Mercer could definitely play that game. And he moved his metaphorical game piece by bringing his hand back and slapping it on her ass. Not as hard as he could - that would come later. The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles, and Abby giggled._

_"__**So let my body do the talkin'**__–" she stood again, still straddling his legs "–__**I'll slip ya that hot, sweet, sexy lovin'**__ ..." She spun around, hair flying, and her hips swiveled until she was back in his lap again, grinding hard against him, and Bobby wanted to tell her to fucking quit it before his hormones were truly out of control, then he would never hear the end of it from Angel or Jeremiah, eventually Jack once Angel got home to tell him._

_The music picked up, and the female singer proceeded to __**ooh**__ and __**ahh**__ and make other noises. Abby leaned back, her shoulders pressed into Bobby's chest, her knees glued together between his legs so that no one was given a free show, and her body began to undulate, roll in waves, pulse the way she did in the bedroom. The way Bobby fucking begged her to every time they had sex._

_"__**Come on, daddy**__." Abby turned her head to face him, lipsynching the words, and Bobby gulped. His hands were clenched tightly on her hips, feeling her move, guiding her in different directions from time to time, but he mostly let her do what she wanted. This was the best birthday present ever._

_Abby reached back, her fingers tangling in his long hair. Her breathing was labored and sweat had begun to form on her neck and chest, causing her skin to glisten beneath the harsh lights of the bar. Bobby could hear her moaning along with the music, moaning for him, moaning like she did when he teased the hell out of her until she threatened to go sleep on the couch if he didn't give her some relief. Her face was contorted in that special I'm-almost-there expression; brows creased, upper lip pulled back, bottom lip squeezed beneath her teeth._

_"__**Come on, mmm, sugar ... ooh, I got you breakin' into a sweat ... got you hot, bothered, and wet, you nasty boy**__." She twirled around so quickly that it took Bobby several moments to notice he was now face-to-face with her. "__**Naughty boy**__." She spoke those words, her lips brushing his, and her tongue snaked out to lap at his mouth as she climbed back onto his lap._

_Bobby was lost in the world of Bonnie and Clyde, lost in Abby's cop uniform, lost in her legs around him, lost in her seductive mouth, lost in her breasts that were about to pop out. Lost. And he didn't ever want to be fucking found._

_"__**Now that you're ready, give it to me ...**__" Abby sang. Their audience felt the song coming to an end and started to applaud. "__**Just gimme that hot ... sweet ... se-xy ... lovin'**__ ..." With each word, she drove her hips into his, and Bobby was by now completely turned on and wholly unable to be turned off. "__**Now gimme a little spankin'**__." She smirked cutely, a stark contrast to the X-rated show she'd just put on. Bobby smiled wildly, proud of his girlfriend, proud that he could show her off. He smacked her ass–hey, she asked for it–and she bounced up and down excitedly._

_"Happy birthday, baby," she snickered, wrapping her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly to her._

_"We ain't gotta stay, right?" Bobby asked, licking just behind her ear._

_"Hell no."_

* * *

Bobby jolted awake, slapping the hand that had been shaking his shoulder, which belonged to Jack.

"Bobby," Jack said.

"What?" Bobby grumbled, rubbing his face. Another dream. Another fucking dream. Dreams that were first memories. Bobby was tired of them. Tired to the point he was considering cutting sleep out of his entire goddamn schedule.

"You told me to wake you up so we could go -"

"Yeah, yeah." Bobby swatted his little brother away, and he heard Jackie giggling like the little bitch he was. "What's so fuckin' funny?"

"You, uh, might wanna take care of that before we go anywhere." Jack pointed. Bobby looked down, not really surprised or embarrassed by the tent in his jeans. Abby had that affect on him.

"What, did you wanna give me a hand, you little queer?" Bobby snapped. Jack stopped laughing, glared, and stomped out of the room. Bobby chuckled. It really was good to be home.

* * *

Winter in Detroit sucked. Winter _anywhere_ sucked. I especially hated the days when snow covered every inch of the ground while the sun shined brightly in the sky, leaving the roads an icy, slushy, dirty mess. Driving was a talent of mine–_precision driving_, as Green liked to put it d -d so I had no problem navigating the treacherous roads, but that certainly didn't mean everyone else on the road was as good a driver. I worried more about them than my ability to pull out of a skid or hitting a patch of ice.

Pulling to a stop in front of the convenience store where I bought my tobacco and where Evelyn Mercer was shot, I chose not to turn the car off just yet. Not only was Jeremiah's expensive car parked out front, but in front of it was Bobby's. What could be going on in there? Any number of things. Maybe they wanted to see exactly where their mother had been gunned down. Maybe they wanted to look for their own evidence. Maybe they wanted to question anyone inside.

Going inside meant confronting Bobby, and we hadn't exactly had the most civil of meetings recently. All his fault, I reminded myself. He'd all but ruled my life since cruising back into town as a man on a mission because I let him. I wanted to understand him; understand his desire to systematically dismantle my world piece by agonizing piece. Did he feel like he owed me? Was he just being spiteful? Had he built up a sincere hatred for me over the years?

It was scary to think that Bobby Mercer - a man I'd been fucking crazy in love with, a man who'd been in plenty of fights in my name, a man who'd taken a bat to anyone that had the balls to disrespect his mother's name - had learned to loathe me. If someone told me seven years ago that I would be one of the people on Bobby's shit list, I would have laughed in their face. The passed ... however long it had been since Bobby'd come to town ... didn't seem real.

Fuck it. I needed cigarettes.

Walking passed Bobby's car, I smiled appreciatively at the very noticeable white streak across the paint. My handiwork. Wish I could've been there for the reaction. Inside the store, I found all four Mercer brothers standing in front of the counter, a black and white television captivating their attention, as well as the clerk's. The only person to glance up at the sound of the ringing bell was Angel.

"This doesn't add up," I heard Bobby say. I inched closer, not wanting to disturb whatever was going on. Peeking from behind the gigantic man that was Jack Mercer, I saw that they were watching the surveillance tape of the night of Evelyn's death. "He's already got the money."

Numb, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen. Though the frames were delayed, a man holding a rather large shotgun aimed at a woman who'd been like a mother to me was clear enough, as was the smoke from the bullet fired into her chest and her frail body falling to the floor.

I didn't cry; not like Jack, who'd spun away from the TV, covering his face as he wept. Angel fought back tears. Jeremiah shook his head. Bobby stared. I didn't feel the pain I'd felt when I heard the news of her death like I should have upon _seeing_ it. No, I felt anger, felt rage, felt _these fucking bastards need to pay_. That's when I understood Bobby. I understood his mission and his undeniable need to complete it. I understood why he couldn't be bothered to be diplomatic toward me; he didn't want me to get in the way.

"Supposably there was a witness told the police this was a gang shooting. You know anything about that?" Bobby asked the clerk. _Supposably_. Bobby never concerned himself with speaking properly, even if he wasn't as stupid as he let everyone think he was.

As the clerk explained what the witness looked like, I busied myself with following Jack around to the other side of the store.

"You okay?" I asked him, looking up into shocking blue eyes that were far too troubled for his age. I didn't know exactly what Jack had been through before Evelyn adopted him, but those eyes said to me that I didn't want to know the details.

Jack gazed down at me, saying nothing.

"_Is he on the courts a lot_?"

I returned my attention to the conversation Bobby was having with the clerk as the older man clarified that yes, the witness did frequent the basketball courts as well as the gym. I knew what Bobby was thinking before he did, and I rushed over to him before I could talk myself out of it.

"Bobby," I respired. He stopped, surprise coloring his tired face, and I could see a streak of wetness on his cheek left behind by a tear. My heart shattered. I had to hold myself back from throwing my arms around his neck and hugging him and telling him everything would be all right and assuring him that he would get the motherfuckers responsible.

"What are you doin' here?" he asked, his voice gruff.

I swallowed the softball sized lump in my throat. Originally, I had planned on talking him out of going over there for fear he'd be arrested or tackled or both. But then I remembered the surveillance tape and how Evelyn had been heartlessly murdered for no apparent reason at all. I didn't want him to stop and think anymore. I didn't want him to reconsider the very reason he'd come back to Detroit. I wanted him to be Bobby Mercer.

"You gonna get 'em?" I asked quietly. Bobby's eyes searched my face for a long moment, searched for I don't know what.

"That what you want me to do?" he replied. Not that he was asking permission, just confirmation. Bobby and I had our own form of communication: say what you didn't mean.

"Yeah," I whispered, lost in his eyes and determination. He knew what I was telling him.

Bobby moved passed me toward the door. I stood motionless, not unbelieving of what I'd just said, but shocked that we'd had a conversation that hadn't resulted in screaming or insults.

The Mercers left the store, bound for the gymnasium and a possible witness to their mother's killing. I was frozen for several minutes. Frozen by the understanding I now shared with Bobby, by the surveillance tape, by Jack's wounded eyes. I found myself imagining the way Evelyn's murderers would die. I saw Bobby beating them to death with his own fists, and Jerry's, and Angel's, and Jack's. Then the youngest brothers disappeared and Bobby's fists morphed into his very favorite Warrior hockey stick. And the last vision? The hockey stick was replaced by Bobby's nickel-plated pistol; the one he bought at a pawn shop after he hustled the wrong guys in a poker game.

"_Miss_?"

My body jolted and I fought to catch my breath. While daydreaming, I'd forgotten to breathe.

"Did you want to make a purchase?" the clerk wearily asked.

An overwhelming need to see Bobby again crashed into me, vibrated through me. I was high off our latest conversation and I wanted that feeling to continue. His eyes hadn't shone animosity when he looked at me. They hadn't shone much of anything other than perseverance, grief, and exhaustion. But maybe he didn't hate me after all. Maybe he was trying his hardest to upset my world so that I would stay out of his way. So I'd stay away from him. Period.

"Uh, yeah," I stumbled for words. "A pack of Marlboro Reds. Make it two."

With my two packs of cigarettes in hand, I jogged toward the gymnasium, having no idea what the hell I was doing. Was I adding stalking to my resume? This wasn't stalking, just watching. I had to be sure Bobby wouldn't get his dumbass beat up.

Upon entering the gym, my ears were greeted with boos from the crowd, and I spotted Bobby strolling onto the court, hand in the air to halt the game. I smiled. Jackie and Jeremiah stood off to the side. Angel was nowhere to be seen. Bobby seemed so small compared to the tall basketball players, but his swagger was confident and he stood firm as the referee approached him. They exchanged quiet words before Bobby stole the ball from him, dribbling in a manner suggestive of aggravation.

"Yeah, I got the rock now!" he shouted. "I got this motherfucker now!" I shook my head, still smirking. Stupid ass.

One of the players advanced on him suddenly, and Bobby pounded him in the face with the ball, throwing him to the floor.

"Oh, Bobby," I mumbled.

The rest of the players, including the refs, converged on _little_ Bobby Mercer, but they backed away almost immediately. I couldn't see why until I stepped forward, peering between the arms of players to discover that Bobby had drawn that shimmering weapon and was turning in a circle, aiming it at everyone around him. To someone who didn't know him, he might have looked threatening, like he'd shoot anybody at the drop of a dime. But I knew him. And I knew he wouldn't shoot anyone. Not in such a public venue, that is.

Jeremiah ran out onto the court, I assume to try and talk sense into his brother. Obviously he didn't realize how truly impossible that would be, but I commended him for making the effort. Jack stayed where he was, glancing around nervously.

"This'll only take a second!" Bobby hollered. "Now shut up and listen! My name is Bobby Mercer. Some of you probably knew my mother, and some of you probably know she was shot about a week ago across the street!"

I watched him, not really listening to his announcement. As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted him. I wanted him to be mine again. I wanted to be his. I wanted us to go back to the way things were before he left. And as I looked at him, I realized not so insanely that it was conceivable. No other woman could have Bobby like I had him, and he would be the first to confess this. He and I - as fucked up as it was - were made for each other.

"You've all been upstanding citizens!" he continued. "_Asa lama lakum_! Enjoy the rest of your game!" I was still smiling as he tossed the ball over his head and left the court.

I needed to smoke.

The cigarette was gone by the time I reached my car, and I climbed inside, hurriedly turning the heat on. I waited for the car to warm up, though deep down I knew that's not the only thing what I was waiting on. When Bobby and his brothers came walking toward their cars, I let out a sigh of relief. Still alive, apparently unblemished. Now I could rest peacefully.

Bobby noticed me across the street and he dramatically gestured toward the gigantic scratch on the side of his car. His eyes were wide, brows were raised, and he seemed like he expected a telepathic confession. Grinning, my middle finger replied to his silent inquiry. Bobby threw his head back laughing. He tossed one last glance over his shoulder in my direction before climbing into his shitty car.

I needed another cigarette.

* * *

**Lyrics from "Nasty, Naughty Boy" by Christina Aguilera.**


	7. Clean

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* * *

  
I couldn't figure out what had awoken me. Did my front door slam or did I dream that? Shaking my head to clear my jumbled thoughts, which were bouncing around inside a disoriented brain, I sat up slowly and scratched my eyes with one hand as the other grabbed the cigarettes from the nightstand. Cigarettes never tasted as fantastic in the morning as they did after a big meal, but the craving was worse following hours of sleep.

I hadn't slept so good in I don't know how long, and I tried not to think about the reasoning behind it. Blindly, I reached for the closest pair of jeans on the floor, pulled them on and left them unbuttoned as I headed for the bedroom door. A crash echoed from somewhere downstairs resembling a broken dish - I knew this because I'd broken plenty of dishes; accidentally and on purpose - compelling me to halt any movement instantly.

Who the fuck was in my apartment?

Seizing the cigarette between my lips, I gripped the aluminum bat I kept near the door, held it in batting position, and descended the staircase quietly but swiftly. My cell phone was downstairs and I didn't have a land line, so there was no calling for help. The logical thing for me to do would have been to stay in my room and lock the door, but then what? Being the girlfriend of Bobby Mercer, you learned to protect yourself, stand up for yourself and yours. Basically - and I'll be quick to admit - sometimes I just wasn't the brightest Crayon in the box.

Stepping off the last stair, I turned the corner into the kitchen, virtually running into a black hoodie worn by the intruder. I planted my feet and reeled back with the bat, my hands constricting around the rubber grip.

"Whoa!" Lynda Manning shouted, hands flying up as she jumped backward. Halfway through the swing, I barely had enough time to whip the bat back in the opposite direction, saving her brain from painting my kitchen walls. The cigarette fell from my mouth, flipping through the air, bouncing near my bare feet.

"Ahh!" I howled, throwing the bat to the floor. It clattered noisily on the linoleum. "What the _fuck_ are you doin' here?" I pointed. "And what the _fuck_ did you break?"

"Trey kicked me out," Lynda confessed, "and I knocked a glass off the counter."

My heart thudded in my chest, endangering the stability of my ribcage. It was hard to catch my breath. I clutched at my stomach in hopes that I would not throw up all over the place. I nodded absentmindedly.

"Well, you're not staying with me," I declared, bending down to retrieve the still lit cigarette. No need to waste it.

"Hey, this is half my apartment," Lynda argued, following me through the living room. Sighing, I all but fell onto the couch, wishing I hadn't gotten up this morning. Or, at the very least, that Trey hadn't kicked Lynda out of his apartment for the sixth time this month. "I have a _key_!"

I should've hit the bitch.

"It hasn't been half your apartment since you stopped paying rent," I reminded her. Not meanly, just sternly. She needed to understand that I was not going to be her mother, I was not going to take care of her every time something didn't go her way. Especially being out of a job.

Shit. I didn't have a job. I'd almost forgotten entirely about being fired and having not gone into work lately. An odd feeling washed over me and my brows furrowed. Bobby had gotten me fired from a job that I loved, and yet I still wanted to be back with him. Because of Bobby, I had no way of paying my bills or buying food or getting gas, and yet I still wanted to be back with him. Evelyn always told me to save money; put the money I didn't use to buy necessities in the bank, and I'd thank her later. No surprise that she was right.

"So, you're just gonna put me on the street?" Lynda snapped. She placed a hand on her hip, I guess trying to look threatening. I remember beating her up in high school for stealing my boyfriend. She had to know she didn't frighten me and no amount of begging or yelling would change my mind.

"Lynda," I started, but I was cut off by my ringing cell phone. "Help me find my phone." Though I know it pained her to do so, she aided my search. I found the BlackBerry I would no longer be able to afford tucked safely in one of my sneakers.

I got weird when I was tired. Or worried. And I'd definitely been both last night. I couldn't stop wondering where Bobby and his brothers had headed after leaving the gymnasium with whatever information they'd obtained. The wonderment had kept me up late, made me smoke lots, and apparently had me hiding my cell phone in my shoe.

"Yeah?" I answered. I didn't recognize the number.

"Abby?"

Angel.

"Yeah, it's me," I said.

"Hey. Uh ... you busy?" He was nervous, which in turn made me nervous.

"What's wrong? Is Bobby alright?"

"He, uh, he got a li'l hurt last night."

"Christ," I mumbled, carding my fingers through my hair, wincing against all the tangles. "What happened?"

"He got bit by some dogs ..."

"_Some_ dogs? As in more than one? What the hell were you idiots doing? How bad is it?"

"Listen!" Angel shouted. My mouth closed. "He still got all his body parts, alright, damn. There's just some bites on his arm and I don't think Sofí knows what she's doin'."

"_Sofí's_ helpin' him?" I asked skeptically.

"Exactly. You a doctor, right?"

I inhaled deeply, fighting back a yawn, deciding not to correct him. Hand on my forehead, eyes closed, I submitted, "Alright. Give me ten minutes."

"Thanks, Abby."

"Does he know you called me?" I inquired. Angel laughed.

"You think I'd have a workin' cell phone right now?"

I chuckled. "Right."

As I buttoned my jeans and slipped on shoes that I never untied, Lynda hounded me. She wanted to know how Bobby was. She wanted to know if we'd talked. She wanted to know _why_ I would talk to him if I _was_ talking to him. She wanted to know why I was going over there and what had happened. She wanted to know who Sofí was. She wanted to know lots of things that simply were not any of her business.

She was also still pursuing a place to live. My place to live.

"You can stay here for three days," I contended. "Three days. You either find a job or you give me my key back and find another place to stay."

"Deal!" Lynda agreed.

* * *

I knocked faintly on the Mercer home door. Two things I noticed straight away: I wasn't here to pulverize Bobby, and Evelyn Mercer would not be the one to greet me. I felt isolated, irrelevant, standing there with a backpack full of medical supplies I'd stolen from my last place of employment hefted over my shoulder.

Bobby didn't want me. What the hell could he possibly want with me after seven years? I was older and I looked older. I'd changed - for the better, in my opinion, but did Bobby agree with that? Bobby looked older, too, but he hadn't changed even slightly. I probably wasn't even his type anymore.

"Thanks for comin'," Angel said after opening the door. I nodded, saying nothing, and followed him through the living room.

"Ahh!" Bobby exclaimed.

"You're such a pussy, Bobby!" Sofí hissed.

"Glad to hear nothin's changed," I mumbled, uncovering an amazing amount of fortitude as I walked briskly toward the dining table. Sofí glanced up at me, groaning with either relief or irritably - it was hard to tell with Sofí, and it was no secret that she and I never really got along. She was too loud for me and, oh yeah, utterly insane.

"Thank God!" she proclaimed, gesturing wildly, throwing something small and white on the table. Probably a cotton ball. "You deal with his dumbass!" She stamped off passed me, nudging my shoulder probably not accidentally.

Bobby glanced briefly at me, though I could see in his eyes he already knew who was standing behind him. He turned back around, shaking his head. I looked at his tattoos, the strong muscles of his back and arms, his broad shoulders. The pit of my stomach broiled with desire, manifesting itself in my increased respirations and sudden hot flash.

"Who called you?" Bobby asked. His voice was grating, but his words were articulate enough. He did not move from the table, didn't move away from me, didn't even move his injured arm to a place where I couldn't get a hold of it. "The fuckin' black asshole with the expensive teeth!" He yelled loudly enough for Angel to hear him, wherever Angel was.

I took the seat Sofí had occupied, dropping the backpack on the table. I kept my eyes on his wound, examining it as closely as possible without actually touching it, as I removed the supplies from my bag.

"Heard you got bit by a dog," I said. Hopefully we would continue to be civil. Hopefully we could carry a conversation without it ending in yelling. Hopefully I could see his smile again. What the hell. I'm a glutton for punishment.

"Two dogs," he replied placidly. Still it was amazing that such a soft voice could come from such an abrasive man.

"D'you kick 'em?" After snapping on a pair of purple latex gloves - couldn't be too careful - I finally took Bobby's arm gently in my hands and inspected the wounds both on and below his forearm. The bites weren't too severe. "They didn't actually bite your skin, did they?" He shook his head. I nodded, happy to hear the risk of infection was minimized. "I think you'll live."

"Good to know." His eyes were on me then, my eyes stayed on his arm, and I got the distinct feeling that he was keeping something from me. Bobby was easy to read, just not easy to anticipate. He wanted to tell me something. Tell _someone_ something.

I cleaned the bites with a saline solution, and Bobby didn't yelp in pain. He also didn't say anything to me like I know he wanted to. He sat there, watching me, watching my purple hands, watching me again. I liked his eyes on me even if I didn't look my best. He was giving me attention; attention I'd been horribly deprived of over the years.

"What happened last night, Bobby?" I asked neutrally, not wanting to seem obtrusive. I didn't expect him to answer.

"We got 'em," he replied, his tone hardly above a whisper. Our eyes met, locked, and I knew what he meant.

"You got 'em?" I breathed. He nodded. He didn't have to say it. Because we had our own form of communication. Because I could read his eyes. Because he knew I didn't have to hear it. I cleared my throat. "And when you say _got 'em_ ..."

"_Got 'em_."

I placed the final piece of tape on the bandage, smoothing it down for longer than it normally took. What happened next was out of my control. My need for him engulfed my insides, conquered my common sense and fear, annihilated any apprehension. Standing, I leaned over the table, grabbed Bobby's face, and crushed my lips against his. At this point, I didn't care if he kissed me back, I didn't care if he shoved me away and told me to get out of his mother's house. I just wanted to taste him, feel him against me. I wanted to remind myself of everything I'd lost seven years ago.

Bobby's lips were still the first few moments of our one-sided kiss, probably the product of shock. And then he joined the party. His mouth moved with mine, and we found a long-forgotten but wonderfully familiar rhythm. He tasted the same, kissed the same. His hands were just as rough and talented. I knew this because they'd come up to cradle my neck, his thumbs on my cheeks. The same. We'd picked up right where we left off. Like we'd never been apart.

When I finally came back to myself, when we'd stopped kissing to catch our breath, I realized I was sitting on Bobby's lap and his arms were solid around my waist, almost painfully so, and my hand was tangled in his stiff hair. I pressed my forehead against his and closed my eyes, reveling in our position and the sheer joy one kiss brought out of me. I breathed his air and he breathed mine. He licked his lips, and so did I.

"Well, that's not the smartest decision I've made, ever," I commented. I spoke only the truth, and I didn't mean it as an insult. He knew what I meant. Like always, with our own form of communication and everything.

"What? Tryin' to lick the back of my neck through my mouth or climbin' all over me in front of my brothers?" he asked haughtily.

"You're the one not lettin' me get up," I indicated his arms still secured round my middle.

"Hey, yo, police in the house!" Angel shouted from the back door.

"Shit," Bobby whispered, for all intents and purposes lifting me off his lap. While he and Sofí talked about finding him something to wear over his arm, I gathered all my supplies, stuffed them back in the bag, and tossed the bag under the chair.

I rushed over to the couch to assume our _act natural_ positions and I ran into Bobby. He was no longer bare-chested. Instead, covering him from head-to-toe, was his mother's robe - all colorful and pretty and girlie. I missed Evelyn just a little bit more right then, but I couldn't help the laughter that escaped my Bobby-bruised lips.

"I wish I had a camera," I admitted.

He ignored me, yanking me around the coffee table and then yanking me down onto the couch beside him. His lips were on mine again, and I melted into the kiss, melted into Bobby, melted back into our old life.

"_Angel, mind if we come in_?" Green. I knew his alluring voice anywhere.

Bobby was still kissing me, but he'd moved on to my cheek and neck. If he wasn't careful, we'd be giving just a few people quite a show in a matter of minutes.

"You're already in," Angel replied. "Cops are always welcome at the Mercer's, it makes us feel safe and cozy." Smartass. "Just the way we like it."

I glanced at Green as he and Fowler strolled into the living room.

"Well, well, well," Green said. Bobby placed one last kiss on my sensitive skin before pulling away and leaning back against the cushions. My leg was hanging over his, his hand on my thigh. Like we'd been here all day. Like we'd done nothing wrong. "Whole gang's back together again." He referred to me and Bobby. "How ya holdin' up, Truelove?"

"I am hunky-dory, Green," I sighed. "How're you?"

"Good, good," he nodded, switching his attention to Bobby and the garment he wore that so obviously was not his. "Ooo wee! Ain't you sexy?"

"Thank you," Bobby said, standing, my leg sliding off his. He walked around the coffee table. "Jackie wanted this little number for himself, but I fought him for it."

I rolled my eyes. Jack wasn't even in the room, and Bobby still made fun of him. When would it end?

"What happened to the hand?" Green asked. I leaned to my left so I could see Bobby's hand as he held it out. Blood was dripping down between his fingers. Oops. Sofí probably could have done a better job with all the attention I _hadn't_ been paying to the wound.

I touched my lips. They were warm and swollen. I wasn't worried about Green. If I knew Bobby - and I did - he covered his tracks perfectly. He wasn't in any rush to go back to prison.

"You know, Volvos are one of the safest cars out there," Angel said. I looked up at him. What had I missed for the few minutes I'd been thinking about the kissing that had gone on today that they were now talking about _Volvos_? "Volvos are incredible, man, when there's a blizzard outside -"

"That's fascinating," Fowler interrupted. My eyes shifted to him. Jack had joined us by now. "Hey, Gretzky, you know what this is?" He held up what appeared to be an empty baggy from where I was sitting.

"Hair from your wife's tit?" Bobby asked.

Glowering, I knew exactly what was in the baggy, or, rather, what was _not_ in the baggy.

"Try from your thick skull," Fowler snapped. I giggled and put my hand over my mouth immediately. Bobby glanced at me over his shoulder, smiling, too. Fowler went on to explain they'd found the hair on _some contract killers_.

"Come on, Green," Bobby said, strutting back over to the couch, his eyes on me the whole time. "You know when I'll know you got _my_ hair off a dead body, right?" He reclaimed his seat next to me, propping his feet up on the table, his hand back on my thigh. "When I hear the jail house doors close behind me, girls."

I didn't want to think about that - Bobby going back to prison. One of the worst years of my life was spent visiting him every Sunday, sleeping alone every night, and accepting a long distance phone call every Wednesday morning. Never again.

"You think you're pretty cute, don't ya?" Fowler asked Angel. Rhetorically, I think, but I sensed Angel would have replied with the affirmative. "He does." He uncrossed his arms, and I tapped Bobby's arm to warn him. "Everybody's a smart guy till I bust 'em in the mouth." He stalked over to Angel, Angel stood, and I waited for punches to be thrown.

Bobby didn't seem worried. Especially when he turned his head to look at me, his eyes descending down my body then back up again to my face.

"You look good," he said. I laid my head back on the cushions, gazing at him.

"You need to shave," I said. Bobby chuckled.

"Look, Bobby, if you got somethin' -" Green started, and we looked up at him. "- you give it to me. And if it's somethin' vital, man, we will run with this, but don't try and take on Detroit your damn self. You keep knockin' on the devil's door long enough and sooner or later somebody gon' answer you!"

My eyebrows rose and I nodded.

"That was a fantastic speech," I said. Bobby snorted. "I liked it. Especially the whole _devil_ thing. You really captured the moment, Green."

The lieutenant shook his head in disbelief. He opened his mouth, narrowed his eyes, then closed his mouth again, like he'd wanted to say something but then thought better of it. He muttered a few goodbyes and left, hauling Fowler along with him.

"Let's get outta here," Bobby said.

Arching an eyebrow, I asked, "And go where? Lynda's at my place."

"So? We'll kick the bitch out. Not like we ain't done that before."

* * *

It wasn't difficult to kick Lynda out. She hated Bobby almost as much as she hated hearing us have sex. One night, Bobby and I had come home drunk and made it as far as the staircase where we removed half our clothes and fucked right there while Lynda slept on the couch. She'd awoken when I'd screamed - I screamed only when intoxicated - and hurriedly left the house, cursing the whole way. I found her sleeping in my car the next day. Bobby and I'd had a good chuckle. Lynda hadn't found it so hilarious. So with one look at the "happy" couple, Lynda bolted.

When Lynda slammed the door, Bobby shoved me against it, locked it, then began the removal of my clothing. He only took enough time to discard my shirt, my jeans, and his shirt before hoisting me into the air, my legs mechanically wrapping around his waist. This wasn't the first time we'd had sex standing up, but it was intoxicating just the same.

"You're a bitch, you know that?" Bobby seethed, one arm holding me up while his other hand made quick work of his jeans.

"Fuck you," I puffed, waiting painfully impatiently for him to shut his mouth and get on with it.

"Havin' me leave town," he persisted, panting hot air all over my throat when he wasn't licking or sucking on the skin there. "Actin' like you knew what was best for me ..."

"Bobby, shut the fuck up and make yourself useful," I ordered, glaring down at him. "Fuck me ... if you still know how."

Taunting Bobby usually resulted in him doing whatever I wanted, and this time was no exception. He was inside me then, filling every one of my senses to full capacity roughly. Bobby never troubled himself with whether or not he was being too vicious with his thrusts as he trusted me to tell him when enough was enough. Right now, however, he couldn't possibly have been rough enough. I liked it hard, I liked it fast, and Bobby had been the only man not too scared to give it to me that way.

"Ah, fuck," I wheezed, rolling my hips into his, pulling him in deeper. My nails scraped across his back in the area of his _no mercy_ tattoo and I licked at his lips, kissed them, sucked on the bottom lip.

"Shut up," Bobby snarled.

"You sure know how to turn a girl on," I ridiculed. His hand clamped over my mouth, knocking my head back into the door, but I didn't mind much. I'd sensed it might happen. Bobby was nothing if not predictable. In the bedroom, that is.

"You think if I wanted to hear you talk -" he chuckled "- I'd have your legs spread right now?" I nodded, his hand following the movement of my head, and he laughed once more, entertained, eventually removing his hand from my mouth.

No more talking or derision, no more giggling; just Bobby moving in and out and in and out as rapidly as his pelvis would allow. My back began to ache, my lips started to dry, but there was nowhere else I'd rather be. I felt sweat pooling between Bobby's shoulders where I'd scratched before, felt the sweat on my own skin, felt Bobby lick it away. It wasn't often that I achieved orgasm during sex - our sex usually consisted of Bobby getting his then me getting mine - only this time was different; this was reunion sex, which was a hundred times better than angry, make-up sex.

"Son of a ... oh, my God!" I moaned, clenching around him, wave upon wave of ecstacy rushing over and through me. Only Bobby could make feel this way, only Bobby could bring this out of me. And only now did I realize how much I'd truly missed great fucking sex. No pun intended. "Jesus, Bobby," I keened, slumping forward, burying my face in the crook of his sticky neck. "I missed you so damn much."

I felt his hand slide along my neck beneath my damp hair, cradling me against him, panting in my ear.

"I'm back now."


	8. Criminality

Inexplicably, I didn't like our situation. As much as I was thankful that we hadn't had to experience any awkwardness and we'd basically fallen back into old routines, I couldn't shake this feeling of discomfort. I was happy to be back with Bobby, of this I was certain, but how easily we'd come together made me weary. I wondered if because we'd fallen into bed so quickly did that mean we'd fall into our criminal ways, too? Was I strong enough not to? I had no job to support myself; I'd have to eat and pay bills somehow, and I knew Bobby didn't have ten cents to his name. What had I gotten myself into?

But I loved him. Jesus, help me, I loved him.

I sat on the couch, scowling at the mess the boys had left on the coffee table. Someone needed to clean this damn house and that someone would probably be me. I heard clamoring in the kitchen, slapping and grunting, and knew two, maybe even three, Mercers were wrestling. Before I could begin to guess who the fighters were, Angel plopped down beside me, disturbing the cushions, bouncing me around. So it was Bobby and Jack in the kitchen. Bobby had likely made fun of Jack. Again. And not for the last time.

"So," Angel started conversationally. He didn't have a good poker face–it was obvious what he wanted to know. "Y'all did it, didn't ya?" he asked, a smile splitting his face.

I rolled my eyes. "Get away from me," I ordered.

"Y'all did it, huh?" he went on excitedly. "Ya _did_ it!"

"Angel," I sighed, "you don't want none of this. I _promise_ you."

"Oh, you threatenin' _me_?" he asked skeptically, a hand on his chest. "You weigh, what, a buck-ten? _Wet_?"

"You're kidding, right?" I said. "You've _seen_ what I did to Bobby."

"That's Bobby," Angel scoffed. "Boy can't take a punch!"

"Hey!" Bobby barked from the kitchen. There was a distinctive slap to the skin that echoed throughout the small home followed by a giggle from Jackie. He must have taken advantage of Bobby's momentary distraction.

As Angel shouted something in reply, I took advantage of _his_ distraction to pounce on him. My arms tightened around his neck, all of my weight on his back. He grunted with surprise, laughed, then stood up, me still perched on him, squirming, trying my hardest to bring him down. Angel and I had wrestled plenty of times before, but I'd never had the pleasure of winning. I thought at least once he'd allow me the opportunity, but boy was I wrong.

"Oh, come on, now!" Angel screeched. "That's cheatin'!"

"What're you gonna do, tell on me?" I huffed, shaking my legs toward the ground in a failing attempt at taking him to the floor. Laughter came from deep in his chest and he spun around to face the couch. He grabbed my arms and threw the top half of his body forward, tossing me into the air, flipping, landing a little too hard on the cushions. "_That's_ cheating!" I protested, struggling a futile task when he pinned my arms.

"_I_ win," Angel announced.

"'Cause you cheated," I murmured.

"_Angel_?" Sofí.

"Hey, baby," Angel stammered. I shoved myself into a sitting position and kicked the back of Angel's knee, laughing when one side of his body lost about three inches. Bobby was too sturdy for this trick, and Jack noticed me do it way too much so he wouldn't stand with his back to me.

"What's going on in here?" Sofí asked, contemptuous. I caught her eyeballing me, looking down her nose at me. I hated a lot of things; looks like that ... I hated the most.

"Nothin', babe," Angel answered straight away. Nice try in preventing a confrontation, I thought, but the bile was already starting to rise in the back of my throat. I'd never done a thing to Sofí–there was no reason for her to hate me. No _real_ reason.

"Really?" Sofí said, cagey, folding her arms over her chest. "Didn't look like that to me."

"Well, you was seein' things then, babe!" Angel exclaimed.

"Whatever, Angel!" Sofí screeched, smacking his hand away when he tried to grab her arm. "Are you fucking her, too? Huh?" She spouted off what I guessed to be obscenities in her native language of Spanish, and I slowly rose from the couch.

"Now just hold on!" Angel clamored, noticing my movement. No doubt he was wise to my intentions; I wasn't exactly mysterious to the Brothers Mercer. "She's with Bobby, Sofí, you know that!"

"So?" Sofí squeaked, jamming her hands into Angel's chest. He had to take a large step back.

"You know, Sofí," I started, trying to stroll passed Angel, but he kept his arm between me and my target. "If you really have something to say ... we can go outside and talk about it." I didn't _want_ to fight her––I fucking _needed_ to fight her. I was disgusted with her attitude and obligation to be nasty to everyone.

"Get her, Mama!" Bobby urged from behind me. I hadn't expected that old nickname to make an appearance in light of his mother's recent death; I was flabbergasted for several long minutes.

"Would everybody please just shut the hell up!" Angel tried to gain control of the situation. I glared at Sofí, smirking a bit, hoping to get a rise out of her so that she would swing at me first, then Angel wouldn't be _so_ mad at me for kicking her ass. "Sofí, take your ass upstairs!"

"Don't talk to me like that!" Sofí battled, pushing Angel again. How many times had I heard her say that and then ten minutes later hear them having sex?

"Sofí, get your ass–" He didn't have to finish before Sofí twirled around, flipping her hair in Angel's face, and stomped up the stairs. Angel quickly followed without another word. I didn't care to know how they were going to make up.

"You should'a laid her ass out," Bobby said, "that's what I would'a done." I sighed, rolling my eyes, and turned to him.

"And since when do you make good choices?" I asked, mocking. He made a face, a face I used to be used to seeing, but he smiled just the same.

Back to normal.

"Now would you both get the hell out of the kitchen, please?" I said. "And clean up that goddamn coffee table!"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Bobby grumbled, passing me, slapping my ass, as he headed for the living room to do the exact opposite of what I'd told him to do.

"Gonna help me with the dishes, Jackie?" I asked the youngest Mercer, who'd found a seat at the table. He smoked languidly after what had feasibly been a battle lost to his big brother. There'd been a time when I'd washed the dishes and Jack had dried and put them away. Obviously he'd been a teenager back then; a lot more eager to help.

"Nope," he replied, smiling. I returned the gesture, shaking my head.

"Lazy ass," I cited. He snorted, nodding.

"Yep."

I washed the dishes, alone, while Jack watched and smoked and occasionally rolled me a cigarette or six when I asked. Next, I sent Jack into the living room while I cleaned the rest of the kitchen and dining table. I even swept. I'd never put so much time and effort into cleaning my own apartment.

Every now and then I'd catch looks from the boys, sadness in their eyes. The last woman they'd seen clean this house had probably been Evelyn–I didn't suspect Sofí had done much in the way of washing and dusting. They didn't say much to me, but periodically Jack would move a chair so that I could vacuum beneath it, and when I was finished, Bobby unplugged the sweeper and put it away for me.

No words were ever spoken except uttered thank yous from myself.

I returned to the living room, pulling my hair into a ragged ponytail to cool off my sweating neck. It'd been weeks since I'd last performed manual labor. Grimacing, I decided I'd make cleaning men out of the Mercers yet.

"Let's go take a look," I heard Bobby say before he and Angel stood from the couch. No chance to ask where they were headed because Bobby tossed me the keys to the Mustang, which I barely snared. "You comin'?" he asked, knowing the answer.

I gawked at him for several moments, saying nothing in reply. I'd forgotten the warmth and intensity he could rip from me simply by looking the way that he did. Men were often described with similar words: handsome, which Bobby had been the morning of his mother's funeral; cute, which Bobby often was when he first woke up. And then there was the common adjective _sexy_. Bobby, at this moment, was _sexy_, and it took everything I had not to rid him of his clothes and fuck him on the living room floor. Though, somehow, I didn't imagine he'd have a huge problem with me doing so.

"Where we goin'?" I subsequently asked. His smile was small, undetectable by anyone but me. He'd caught me staring.

Sofí slammed a hand on the door frame connecting the living room to the entry room where the front door was. She blocked the exit, and I rolled my eyes, huffing.

"Baby," Angel sighed.

"Now sweetie," Sofí began, feigning sweetness of her own. "Wasn't there a discussion about a dinner together?"

Bobby and I looked at each other, and I could see in his eyes how grateful he was for the detrimental, though completely understanding, bond we shared. He was grateful that I didn't nag him, grateful that I wasn't an unbalanced, whining bitch, grateful that I knew when to let him be.

"'Cause I seem to remember spending two hours in the kitchen," Sofí went on. I shook my head and nudged Jack, motioning with my fingers against my lips as code for him to give me a cigarette. We'd be here a while.

"We got some important shit to deal with, baby," Angel growled. I lit my cigarette, Jackie lit his, and I was proud of Angel for standing up for himself. Because if he didn't ... I was fully prepared to take out some knees Bobby Mercer style.

"She's so _la vida loca_," Bobby alienated. My teeth ground together–why would he willingly prolong an argument that was bound to last at least an hour? I wanted to kick him.

"Shut up, Bobby!" Sofí demanded, pointing. "Don't start with that crap!"

Then there were three people arguing–Angel, Bobby, and Sofí–and I couldn't understand a word they were saying. That is, until:

"I get a new girlfriend every week!" Bobby's voice rose above Angel's and Sofí's.

Infuriated by the images that were instantly brought to mind–ones of Bobby with other women more attractive than me, in better shape than me, willing to do more for him than me–I flicked the half spent cigarette at Bobby. The flaming ash bounced of his arm, raining slowly through the air.

"Really?" I asked, glaring up at him as I passed through the group, shoving bodies out of my way.

"¡_Cállate_!" Sofí barked. I had a sneaking suspicion that word was directed at me, but because of my fury at Bobby, I chose to avoid a confrontation.

"Can we please just fucking go?" I hissed, hand on the doorknob.

"Yeah," Bobby agreed. Trying to get back in my good graces. Good luck. "Can we go?"

"You said this time was gonna be different," Sofí blubbered. Bobby and Jack looked at each other.

"_Ay mami_," Bobby keened, folding his hands over his heart. "You're breaking _mi corazón_. _Chica_."

I wanted to laugh, but Bobby's previous declaration had me on edge. Bastard. Girlfriend every week? Did that mean I was this week's girlfriend?

"She's gettin' real comfortable here, huh?" Bobby asked, stepping in front of Angel.

"What, like Abby ain't?" Angel retorted.

"Fuck off. At least everybody likes me," I defended myself.

"What are you doin'?" Bobby asked Angel. "I thought you was a macho man. A tough guy."

"Compared to who?" I challenged. Bobby's attention finally fell completely on me.

"Would you shut the hell up, Abby, and calm down?" he ordered. "Damn. Always gotta take things so fuckin' personal."

"You know what? Walk your fuckin' ass to wherever you're goin'," I said, keys jingling in my hand as it gestured fiercely. "I'm goin' home."

The door slammed behind me and I didn't look back. I stomped down the sidewalk toward my car, mumbling lewdness under my breath as I went. All musings about the way Bobby looked in that work shirt were tossed out the window.

Asshole.

"Abby!" he called after me. Two sets of boots thumped behind me. Angel must have stayed inside.

Having no patience for an argument, I lifted my middle finger over my shoulder and walked around the front of my car. I hurried inside and locked the doors, exhaling pent up rage that was increasing by the second as Bobby stood in front of the Mustang, blocking my exit. Stubbornly, I crossed my arms over my chest. Nobody was going anywhere. Stalemate.

"Stop bein' a bitch," Bobby decreed, pointing. "We ain't Angel and Sofí." My head tilted. "We're not gonna argue all the fuckin' time!"

God, was I acting like _Sofí_?

"Fuck," I whispered, startled.

With no hesitancy whatsoever, I unlocked the doors, and Jack climbed into the backseat without being told to do so. Bobby claimed the passenger seat.

"Dick," I uttered, starting the car.

"Whore," he retaliated. I gave him a fleeting look, hardly smiling.

"Could we cut the dirty talk, please?" Jack made himself known from the backseat. "I'm–I'm a little uncomfortable."

* * *

I was not forewarned about what Bobby and Jack planned to do, so when they broke into a dead man's apartment, I had no choice but to follow them inside. The room was dark save for a soft light in the corner that cast an amber hue across the walls and floor, and I stood in the living room. I didn't like being here. The owner was dead, but he'd killed Evelyn, and chills ran up and down my spine. This was where he'd slept, where he'd eaten, where he'd had sex, where he'd lived his life, however worthless.

My hands began to shake.

"I'm not staying here," I proclaimed, heading for the door.

"Hey!" Bobby said. I stared hard at the door, my shaking hands having no desire to touch the doorknob that Evelyn's murderer had touched.

Stuck.

"You're not leavin'," Bobby said. "You help us look around and we'll get outta here faster."

"Bobby," I snarled.

"Abby–" He snapped his fingers. "Go make yourself useful, Jack." I didn't turn, didn't need to see that Jack had been staring and Bobby wasn't about to let him hear his older brother being _nice_.

"I want to leave, Bobby," I instilled.

"I don't want to be here, either." His lips brushed my ear and his hand rested upon the small of my back. I could feel his heat and I remembered what he was wearing–my favorite shirt and the jeans that made his ass look perfect. And I shouldn't be thinking these thoughts in a dead murderer's apartment, but I wasn't anything if not inappropriate, which is one of many reasons why Bobby and I meshed so well. "But we gotta do this. We need to know who hired these guys to kill Ma."

My eyes penetrated him readily just as they had seven years ago. I could tell what this meant to him. While I was willing to accept an ending in the deaths of the cocksuckers who'd gunned down Evelyn Mercer, Bobby needed more than that. He needed to continue to climb the ladder from hired guns to who hired the guns so that everyone involved was either in the ground or wishing they were. I admired his zeal, but I worried about the day when it got him killed.

"Fine," I complied. "_Ten minutes_. Then we're fucking out of here."

Bobby grinned boastfully as he shook my hand, clinching the deal. He did not release my hand before jogging across the smallish living room and into a bedroom. Jack remained where he was, rifling through a dead man's belongings as if he did this sort of thing everyday.

"What am I looking for?" I queried, standing indecisively in the doorway. I still didn't want to touch anything, illogically afraid of contracting some horrifying murderous disease.

"Anything," Bobby responded. He slammed a drawer after having rummaged through it and turned to me. "Just–here." He yanked off his black gloves and tossed them to me. "Weirdo," he breathed.

"Shut up," I shot back feebly. When he wasn't looking, I tugged the oversized gloves on and began to ransack the bedroom.

As Bobby searched through the closet, I started with the bed. Vibrating with conflicting emotions concerning my current position in Bobby's life, as well as my current location, I bent over, gliding my gloved hands along the ugly comforter. My mind was blank–I don't know why I did it. Maybe I needed to assure myself that the gloves worked and my hands wouldn't touch anything I didn't want to touch. Maybe I was stalling, pretending to investigate so Bobby wouldn't think less of me or yell at me.

So caught up was I in my thoughts, or lack thereof, that I didn't notice Bobby coming up behind me until his hands seized my hips tightly and tugged me back against him. Shock overwhelmed me instantly–he couldn't be serious, could he? My question was answered promptly as he leaned over me, molding his hard chest to my back, and he brushed my hair from one side of my neck so he could pull my head back, bowing my spine, and nip at my neck.

"Bobby," I puffed. My hands slipped along the blanket, trying to find purchase to support his weight on me. "You've _got_ to be kidding." He shushed me, rocking his hips into mine. His arousal was plain to see–feel–I noticed when his hands slithered round my sides to the button of my jeans. "If there was ever a _wronger_ place to have sex ..."

"Shut up, Abigail, and let me do this," he directed. He didn't wait for a reply from me before unsnapping my jeans and dropping the zipper.

My mind reeled as I permitted him to pull the jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh, his hands then leaving my body to do the same to his own clothes. Why would he do this here and now, let alone _at all_? Why would he do this aware of the fact that being in this apartment made me physically nauseous and so very far from a mood in which I wanted to have sex? But as I've said before ... Bobby and I were meant to be because we understood each other. Though it took me a while to make any sense of what he was doing, I eventually figured it out.

Desecration.

It wasn't enough for Bobby to kill the killers–now he wanted to commit sacrilege against them. It made sense to me, but I doubted anyone else would get the gist of it. Anyone else might think him barbaric, ludicrous, malicious. Not me. He abhorred those men; all the more reason to insult them further.

"Do it," I beseeched, glancing over my shoulder at him. "Come on, baby."

Equipped with a green light go-ahead, Bobby threw his jacket to the floor, then removed mine, grabbed my hips, and reminded me with his vigor how determined he was to finish what he'd started. My whole body jarred with each thrust, my hands sliding this way and that until finally I began to pull the gloves off.

"Hey, Bobby–" Jack's voice rang in the air amongst Bobby's grunts and my muffled moans.

"Get outta here, Jack!" Bobby bellowed at the same time as I ripped off the second glove and threw it in the littlest Mercer's direction. Jack shrank from the bedroom as quickly as he could, slamming the door behind him. A framed picture fell from the wall, the glass shattering as it likely landed on a dresser–I didn't care enough to look up.

"I think he likes seein' you half naked," I moaned anxiously.

Bobby's knee sank on the bed beside mine, one hand reaching up to grasp my shoulder. It was obvious what he was going for, other than his original plan of unadulterated cruelty–he wanted to get _me_ off. He wanted to fuck his girlfriend–of the week?–and give her a night to remember for years to come while the dead owner of this bed rotted in the ground.

"Bobby," I groaned, feeling him move deeper and deeper inside, searching for the spot not many men knew of and the few who did know didn't know where to find it. Bobby had hit the spot on occasion, so he realized how difficult it would be to locate it, but Bobby was nothing if not strong-minded.

"I know," he panted. Releasing my shoulder, he grabbed a chunk of my hair and wrapped it securely around his hand, not pulling, just holding.

My whole body shuddered, quaked, as that spot was tweaked, and I let out a squeak foreign even to me. "There!" A slew of words tumbled out of my mouth, most of which I didn't understand, and the top half of my body collapsed under the insurmountable pleasure. If I wasn't so busy moaning, squealing, and clawing at the comforter, I might've thrown up for having put my face against a dead man's blanket.

"That it?" Bobby huffed. His hand crept under my shirt, roughly caressing the skin along my spine. He didn't need to ask. "I wanna hear it, Abby." Another well placed plunge, and I screamed, pounding my fist on the mattress. "I wanna _fucking_ hear it."

"Fuck!" I howled. I threw my head back, hair flying, as the electricity produced by the ruthless bastard behind me pulsed through my veins and pounded in my head and rattled every nerve to its very core. My thighs shook, as well as my arms, and all I wanted to do was lay down and sleep.

But not here.

By the time I came back to myself, Bobby had replaced his jeans and was wrapping his arms around my middle to assist me in standing. I was still in awe of what we'd just done and where we'd done it and how I would absolutely rank this in our Top Five Best Sex of All Time list. I tried to imagine what would happen if he tried to touch me in any sort of carnal way–my body would burst into a thousand wholly satisfied pieces, and I would die a happy girl. Bobby pulled my underwear up, then my jeans, and if I wasn't hallucinating he buttoned and zipped them for me while I rested heavily against him.

"Still think you're the girlfriend of the week?" he asked, turning me around to face him. I looked up at him with afterglow eyes, my hands gliding up and down his chest.

"Not if you never mention that conversation again," I offered.

"Jealous broad," he joked, kissing my lips so softly I wasn't sure if he'd kissed me at all.

"Damn right," I validated. "And you know how I get when I'm jealous." His lips formed an _o_ and he pressed his lips to mine for a second kiss.

"I like it when you're jealous," he growled.

I rolled my eyes. "Is it time to go yet?"

"Alright, get outta here. I'ma finish lookin' around." He slapped my ass, and I headed for the door. I hadn't yet opened it when I heard him cursing under his breath.

"What–" I turned. He'd lifted the mattress–hidden beneath were ten or more handguns and one shotgun.

"Shit," Bobby whispered. "Hey, baby?" He glanced up at him, a dumb smirk on his face. "This is number one." At my confused expression, he continued, "On our list. We just fucked on a bunch of _guns_, Abby!"

Bobby packed the guns in a bag he found in the bedroom, then hustled me out of the room. He shined his flashlight on Jack.

"You dickin' around in here?" Bobby asked. "Find anything?"

Jack held up a camera. "Camera."

"Come on."


	9. Alleviation

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_"Bobby, you're gonna drink yourself into a coma if you don't lay off the liquor," Johnny G noted, speedily wiping down the counter before the next wave of costumed drunks arrived to order their next round of drinks._

_On cue, Bobby knocked back his recently purchased shot of Jack Daniels and slammed the empty glass onto the counter, frowning with vacant eyes at the bartender._

_"Dos Equis then," he ordered. Johnny G shook his head, but retrieved the bottle of beer, set it before Bobby, and accepted payment in the form of _put it on my tab_._

_"I see you put a lotta thought into your costume," Johnny G commented sarcastically. Bobby instinctively glanced down at his t-shirt and jeans._

_"Hey, I got a mask," he argued, pointing to the hockey mask that had been sitting on the top of his head since he'd arrived. "I'm Jason Vorhees."_

_"Look more like a douchebag to me," Johnny G chortled. Bobby saluted him with his middle finger. "So where's this girlfriend of yours? Hear she turned twenty-one this week. Figured this might be the first place you brought her."_

_Bobby's smile was predatory as he glanced sideways at the bartender. He hadn't yet seen Abby in her costume, but he'd been present when she'd bought the pieces at different stores and even over the Internet, telling him all about the idea she had and how badly she hoped no one would take sincere offense to it. He had to hand it to her, though; she had balls to wear it, and if anyone gave her grief for doing so, they'd have to answer to Bobby Mercer. A borderline drunk Bobby Mercer at that._

_"She'll be here," he assured his friend. "You just make sure you keep it in your pants when you see her."_

_"She's, like, twelve," Johnny jeered, arms raised, bent. "And besides, if she's with a crazy fucker like you, I don't think I wanna be her best friend, you know." That made Bobby laugh unreservedly, hand to his chest as if he might burst a ventricle with the action. True enough, nevertheless. He never thought he'd meet a girl who matched him, who was his other half, who could take it just as well as she could dish it back._

_And he embraced these revelations as soon as she walked through the door, in costume, head held high, noticeably ready to celebrate her birthday at a bar where she was finally able to get into. As she walked––swaggered––toward the bar where Bobby had told her to meet him, other bar patrons were in no time giving her their full attention, eyes scanning a costume they'd never thought of themselves nor expected anyone else to wear, expressions of aversion decorating most of their faces. The rest of them had blank looks, none of them knowing exactly what to think or say. The music didn't stop like in the movies, but Bobby felt like the conversation and drinking did for several moments until they decided other things were more important._

_Bobby didn't think other things were important right now. His eyes glued to his girlfriend, from her boots to her hat, and he smirked, choosing not to give her a full proud smile. He didn't want to show his hand so early in the night, but he counted on going home and doing everything he could to her while she remained in the controversial costume._

_When she stood before him, finally, grinning grandly, hands on her hips, eyes almost hidden by the hat that looked to be too big on her head, Bobby's eyes narrowed down at her. The hat resembled a cop's; instead of a badge, a medal in the shape of an eagle was pinned there with another medal shaped like a skull beneath it. Her uniform was black; a braided silver cord attached to the shoulder and breast of the tunic hung ominously along with many other decorations a German General Staff Officer––a Nazi––would have received, including Iron Crosses and the popular red arm band brandishing the sinister swastika. The only article of clothing that wasn't true to the 1940s were her boots––they were knee high and the heels were spiked._

_"You didn't salute me when I came in," she said snobbishly. Bobby exhaled, closing the space between them, his chest meeting hers._

_"Not with my hand," he said clandestinely, staring down his nose at her._

_"Ooh," Abby purred. She glanced around the room as her hand raised and touched his side. "Think they hate me?"_

_"Do you care?"_

_She shrugged. "I don't care if they hate me, I just don't want them all thinking I'm a racist."_

_"It's a costume, Abby," Bobby said in retrospect. "You think people think I'm Jason Vorhees?"_

_"I doubt it since you're not wearing the mask."_

_"You want me to hide my face?" He knew the answer._

_"I wouldn't have you hiding anything if I ruled the world," she whispered bawdily._

_Well, he thought he knew the answer. He had to ignore this conversation and end it if they planned on spending any time at this Halloween party. Not that he wanted to spend any time here––he fucking hated most of the people in attendance (those he didn't were his brothers and Abby.)_

_"Ready to order your first legal drink?" he asked. It was a rite of passage, a milestone, and no matter how goddamn weird he felt about it, he was actually kind of happy to be with her while she did it._

_"Johnny Black," she ordered, directing her attention to the bartender._

_"No, Johnny G," he replied, hand on his chest. He smiled. "So you must be the illusive Abby." Abby nodded. "I was startin' to think you was imaginary."_

_"No, I'm real," she replied endearingly._

_"With real balls," Johnny G addressed, nodding at her costume. He poured her drink and pushed it across the bar. "On the house, kiddo. Happy Birthday."_

_Abby winked at him, took the glass, and turned to Bobby._

_"Let's get fucking plastered," she proclaimed._

_It didn't take long. Bobby went back to hard liquor, Abby continued with it, and once Jerry and Angel joined them, they stopped even keeping track of their tab. They found a table near the center of the bar––if Bobby hadn't been wasted he might have argued with where they chose to sit––Abby perched on Bobby's lap. She'd lost her hat to Jeremiah, and the red armband was now on Angel's arm, who had it in his mind that he would answer anybody's questions about whether or not Abby was a racist._

_"When are we goin' home?" Bobby griped. However content he was with feasting on Abby's neck in public, there were things he wasn't willing to do in public that he wanted to do right now._

_"I don't know, later," Abby shortly answered, leaning away from him. She hated when he wanted to cut their time short with their friends just to go home and have sex. They had sex all the time. Sometimes she wondered if he wasn't in this relationship simply for the sex._

_"Well, fuck, Abby, I think I've seen enough fuckin' Luke Skywalker and Al Capone costumes for an entire lifetime!" Bobby quibbled. "Jesus Christ!"_

_"Go get another fuckin' drink and calm your ass down," Abby said, exacerbated. She removed herself from his lap, gesturing dramatically toward the bar. "Let me have some fun for once!"_

_Bobby rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Not as he was told. No, his current drink was almost gone, so he needed another one. He went and got one because he needed one, not because she told him to. He stood and gulped down the rest of his Dos Equis so that everybody saw what he was doing and his reasoning behind making another trip to the bar._

_By the time he'd received his drink and a healthy compliment about his girlfriend from Johnny G, he turned around and leaned against the bar, not ready to return to the mountain of fun his girlfriend and brothers were having. Probably at his expense, too. The alcohol was brewing within him a malevolent case of rage and instead of curing it by cutting himself off, he fueled it by downing nearly half the bottle. There would be a fight tonight, of that he was sure._

_The person he would fight made himself known immediately. His head was shaved, a dark goatee surrounded his mouth, and he wore no costume. Bobby knew him only by reputation and he knew exactly why he was talking to Abby: the man was a Nazi, a white supremacist, a skinhead. He might have been attracted to Abby, but he was doubtlessly more attracted to her costume, assessing wrongly that her ideals agreed with her disguise. Bobby hadn't had a problem with her costume before now._

_Bobby hadn't even processed that his brothers were standing next to him until he tried to walk away and they stopped him._

_"They're just talking," Jeremiah interpreted the scene he knew Bobby to be so engrossed in._

_"You know who that fucker is?" Bobby shouted._

_"Hey!" Johnny G interrupted from behind the bar. Bobby glanced over his shoulder. "Not in here, Mercer, you hear me?" Bobby waved him off––he'll fight this asshole any damn where he pleases, he thought._

_"Leave it alone, Bobby," Angel persuaded._

_Bobby was nearly worn down enough to forget the whole thing––for now––until the intruder, Derek, Bobby thought was his name, touched the side of Abby's neck so he could lean closer to her ear. _

_Whispering God's know what, Bobby fumed, and that was it._

_He rammed his brothers out of his way as well as many other people in his path of destruction. He was next to them in seconds, his girlfriend and the man he was about to maim._

_"Get the fuck outta here, man," he decreed, eyes boring into Abby. She huffed, rolling her eyes, and looked up at him as she folded her arms. Her stance and expression both oozed vexation, but Bobby couldn't have cared less. She didn't know who she was talking to, what she could be getting herself into. She didn't know he was doing her a favor._

_"Didn't expect to see you here," Derek said frostily. His eyes didn't meet Bobby's––no reason for it, as they both seemed to know what would come of this conversation._

_"Don't act like you know me, asshole. Get away from my girl."_

_"Your girl?" Derek asked, astounded. "Come on."_

_"Yeah, Bobby's my boyfriend," Abby made herself known. "But I really don't know for how long!" She yelled the last part in Bobby's ear, causing him to flinch._

_Derek cracked a gleaming smile. "Doesn't sound like she's too satisfied to me," he said._

_Inconspicuously, Bobby's hand wrapped around the neck of a nearby beer bottle. He returned the imperious smirk, nostrils flaring, and then he bashed the bottle over Derek's Nazi fucking head._

_It was his greatest drunken moment._

_Several punches, shoves, kicks, and names were thrown about as Bobby and Derek fought each other as hard as they could until Johnny G broke it up with a bat and a promise to ban them from the bar if they didn't take it outside. Abby didn't allow any further fighting, and with the assistance of Jerry and Angel, she yanked him to the car. Jerry, ever the light drinker, drove them to their apartment._

_"Just like you to ruin everybody's fucking night," Abby hissed._

_"Hey, I wasn't the one whorin' around tonight!" Bobby retorted._

_"Say it again," Abby prompted, snarling, rounding on him. She was the very embodiment of in your face as her nose would have touched his chin had she been tall enough. "Call me a whore again and say it to my face."_

_Bobby took a deep breath. Despite Abby being a girl, she was provoking him, and he never stepped down from a fight. He was also hammered, not thinking clearly, and all he wanted was a fight. He hadn't had time to win the one against Derek and he felt cheated because of it._

_"You were acting like a _fucking whore_ tonight," he declared._

_Abby's eyes grew ten times their normal size, and Bobby was slow to react as she reeled back with a white knuckle fist, which crunched across Bobby's eye. He was a step behind everything happening, and as he cradled the throbbing bone beneath his eye, he couldn't believe she'd punched him for the second time since they'd known each other. The first time he'd let it slide––the fact that she had the balls to punch a perfect stranger for insinuating she was a whore had been intriguing to him––but now he was just pissed. And he suddenly didn't agree with the rule that you shouldn't hit women. What if they fucking hit you first and it fucking hurt?_

_You hit them back, his drunken mind decided._

_When she fell back against the wall, hand over one side of her face, one eye locked on him, she didn't look surprised. He hadn't used nearly all his strength and his hand hadn't been clenched into a perfect fist. After a moment, she dropped her hand and her eye was already reddening as he suspected his was._

_"Do you feel better?" she asked dryly._

_Bobby shook the pain out of his hand._

_"Yeah," he answered truthfully. "I do."_

_Abby nodded. "Can we go to bed now?"_

* * *

  
Breaking and entering seemed to come easily to the Brothers Mercer. And why shouldn't it? They grew up with it, mostly, although Bobby was the one who'd taken to it the fastest. For a while he'd occupied himself with learning the intricacies of professional breaking and entering––like the bank robbers in the movies––but he quickly grew bored and impatient and resolved to shattering windows or kicking down doors. It made him happy––he loved the sound of breaking glass, just as I did.

I chose not to make the trip inside the lavish home the boys had broken into. Instead I waited in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel white knuckle tight. I'd forgotten my cigarettes like the idiot I am after having slumped on the couch and taken a short nap––worn out from the unhallowed sex Bobby had initiated at the dead killer's apartment. Not that I was complaining, but I'd have been a lot more jolly had I had a bit more sleep before getting up and driving the Four Fools to a home belonging to a man they believed had answers about Evelyn. I told them I would wait in the car in case there was need for a swift getaway. Honestly I was afraid Bobby would get the itch to have sex again and, truth be told, I was a little sore and a little tired from earlier.

After several insufferable minutes, I climbed into the back of Jerry's Volvo––the very back where Jack was made to ride, where he argued the fact that I didn't even need to be going and if I hadn't he would not have had to ride in the back––where Jack had left his leather jacket, where I hoped he'd also left his cigarettes. With a sigh of immense alleviation, I found the package of tobacco beside the rolling papers in an inside pocket, and I fashioned a sloppy cigarette as quickly as my fingers would allow me to. I didn't care much for his choice of tobacco, nor did I really enjoy the paper since it wasn't strawberry flavored, but smokers can't be choosers––nicotine was nicotine in my book. Rolling down the window, I lit the end of the cigarette, inhaled, and smiled, exhaling out the window.

The boys had long since disappeared into the home after breaking a window. I adjusted the rear view mirror to a perfect image of the street behind and the two side mirrors, as well. There wasn't much to be seen in the darkness except the snow, which was reflected brightly by the moon. I yawned and rested my head back against the seat. Jerry's car was comfortable as hell, I noticed, much more comfortable than my Mustang and its bucket seats. My eyes closed after hitting the cigarette and I thought of Bobby. The way he looked in his beanie, the way he'd smelled sitting next to me on the way over here, the way his thumb idly caressed my thigh as he stared out the window. Little things. Always the little things which made me love him just a little bit more than before.

But did he love me in return? Obviously he enjoyed the sex, but was he falling back in love with me? Was he _crazy fuckin' in love _like he'd declared during one drunken night with his brothers (the only time he'd ever actually used the word love in reference to me)? I couldn't be certain, and I wasn't about to ask him and scare his macho ass into thinking I'd changed in the years he'd been absent, that now I wanted a big wedding and stable employment and two point five kids. The stable employment I wouldn't mind, and Bobby had had a fairly stable job at a factory before he'd left, but the other things––marriage and kids––I wasn't so sure about. Cooking didn't exactly run in the family, neither did good parenting or great marriages. All I knew about Bobby's family (before Evelyn) was that his father had been a strict disciplinarian, his mother an alcoholic, and the way I understood it, Bobby hadn't felt much sorrow when they'd both been killed in a car accident likely caused by his dad that'd killed two pedestrians, one a child. This I'd learned from Evelyn, and Bobby wasn't aware that I knew––I had plans of keeping it that way for the rest of our lives.

A blaring horn had me jumping away from the light doze of sleep, the cigarette flying onto the passenger seat. I grabbed it, but not fast enough, and there was an obvious burn mark in the upholstery. Jerry would never let me live it down. I focused on the mirrors, eyes darting from one to the next, until I clearly saw Sofí standing outside of her car, hand planted on the horn, screaming at the house. She was pissed off at Angel, thereby trying to get them caught and arrested.

I snapped. Too many times I'd put up with her shit because I cared about Angel and didn't want to have any bad blood between us. But this bitch was beyond fucked up and beyond any forgiveness from me. I ripped the knit cap from my head, tore off my coat, and jumped out of the car.

"What, you got something to say to me?" Sofí asked belligerently.

I didn't, but my fists sure did. She backed up only slightly as I stalked toward her––one thing she and I had in common was our thirst for fighting––slamming her car door shut before swinging, which she seemed to be ready for as she barely ducked it. I tackled her to the ground, and her hands flailed in all directions, blocking each of my punches.

"Get the hell off me, _cabrona_!" she shrieked. Her dark hair was a stark contrast to the snow beneath us and her earrings glittered.

"Shut the fuck up," I said rather conversationally. She was blocking my attacks effectively, serving to piss me off even more.

"Whoa!" a voice shouted from behind us.

No! They can't break up the fight yet! It hasn't even gotten to the point of a _fight_! But they didn't listen to my silent protests, and I was yanked off of Sofí roughly, my fingers tightening around a lock of her silky hair. She screeched, pulling it in the opposite direction until the distinctive sound of hair splitting could be heard for miles. Well, that was satisfying.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I screamed at Angel's girlfriend. "Why are you always tryin' to get these guys in trouble?"

Sofí squealed what I figured were salacious slurs in her native Spanish, scrambling within Angel's arms to have a shot at me. I did what I thought would exacerbate her the most: I laughed at her, placidly permitting Bobby––I knew his arms and strength anywhere––to haul me away from the scene of the fight.

"What'd it feel like?" Bobby breathed in my ear. His voice was nearly taking on the tone that would unavoidably turn me on.

"What?" I asked, turning to him once he'd set me on my feet.

"Clockin' the bitch!"

I giggled. "You're such a neanderthal, did you know that?"

"You like it," Bobby uttered, bending his knees to bring him somewhat down to my height where his hands could reach back to my ass.

"Bobby, you're a walking hard-on lately. What the hell is going on with you?" He smiled boastfully just as a costly car pulled into the driveway. Only Bobby and I seemed to notice as Jackie, Jerry, and Angel were attempting to subdue Sofí.

"Excuse me. What are you doing?" the old man asked. His hair was white, he looked innocent enough.

"How you doin', buddy?" Bobby asked, opening the car door.

"Bobby! Bobby! He's a lawyer!" Jerry chimed in, sprinting over, trying to stop Bobby from pulling the old man out of his car.

"What's going on here?" the man asked frightfully as Bobby extracted him from the car.

"He's a liar, Jerry!" Bobby hollered. He wrestled him to the ground, and even I tried to pull him off, but he simply slapped my hands away, and I let him be. "You fucking lied to me. You said you didn't even know my mother. You were the last person to see her alive!" He lifted the man's shirts over his face, revealing his bare chest, and he slapped him just below the ribcage. I giggled and immediately felt ashamed, though no one seemed to hear or see me. "Look at that, Jerry! It leaves a nice big red handprint, huh?"

"Just ask him the question," Jerry ordered, nervous.

"No, I'm gonna do it again––" _slap_ "––and again until I find out what I wanna know," Bobby asserted. Angel leaned over his brother and slapped the old man, too.

"Tell him!" he said.

"Okay. Okay, I'll explain," the well-dressed man finally conceded. Bobby let him go. "It's just that I ... I felt so guilty."

"Guilty for what?" Jerry asked apprehensively.

The lawyer mumbled, stammered, and eventually admitted to having what he referred to as a "social relationship" with Evelyn Mercer. I gaped. Bobby rolled his eyes, then helped the innocuous man to his feet.

"I have some of your mother's night things," he said. I burst with laughter until tears came to my eyes. I was happy Evelyn had found a man to spend time with, and this guy appeared perfect for her, and now he was offering Bobby his mother's _night things_.

"No, it's not necessary," Bobby denied, brushing snow and other natural objects from the lawyer's jacket. "I apologize, Mr. Bradford. We broke your back window. We're just tryin' to figure out what happened to my mother."

"I understand," Mr. Bradford said.

"Thank you. I appreciate that. You have a beautiful home here."

"Thank you."

This was weird. Bobby had just broken into this man's home, assaulted him, and was now confessing, as well as complimenting him? Really? Had Bobby, as they say, turned over a new leaf? Not likely, though not impossible.

"Sorry about all this," I said to the old man, smiling awkwardly.

"It's––it's quite alright," he said. Lying, probably.

"That's the girlfriend," Bobby introduced me casually, indicating me with his thumb.

Casual as it was, the statement was victorious in giving me pause. Amazing how one word could disrupt the normally steady beating of one's heart. He wanted me, at least enough to mention me as his girlfriend, and the fact that this made me so excited and filled my heart with so much joy seemed a bit childish––high school––but the Mercers and I were nothing if not dramatic. I was happy with this tiny, half-hearted acknowledgment, and I'm sure it was plain on my face, had Bobby been looking at me. I saw him in, not a different light, but the light from seven years ago, the one that illuminated the face of the man who'd taken care of me, who'd worked double overtime and holidays to feed us and help with the rent, who'd never failed in making me laugh when I was pissed off, who'd loved and adored his mother and looked out for his brothers. I'd landed a good man twice. I didn't assume I'd be lucky a third time. I had to hold on to him this time around and never let him go.

"Come on, guys, let's get the hell outta here!" Bobby jammed his hand into my back, forcing me toward Jerry's Volvo, and I gave the lawyer a weak wave as I climbed into the driver's seat.

"Angel!" Jerry called from the back. He'd not had much of a problem relinquishing his car to me as he'd seen me drive in the past. Jack was excited, too, clearly assuming Angel would end up riding with Sofí back to the house and he wouldn't have to ride in the back.

Angel and Sofí were in a heated debate still, in front of the house. She smacked his chest, he grabbed her arms to keep her from doing so, she stamped her little feet like a six-year-old, he imitated her. It was quite a show, I must say. Bobby agreed, leaning over me, one hand on the back of the seat, the other on the steering wheel for balance. I smelled him again like I had on our way over here and all I wanted to do was lick his exposed neck, kiss him, too, and maybe even bite him. I didn't care for the title of boyfriend, but I was content with now officially calling him my _man_.

"Hey, Sofí!" Bobby shouted. "Get your fuckin' car outta the way!"

"Fuck you, Bobby!" Sofí retorted.

Eventually, Angel wrestled Sofí into the car and pulled out, disappearing down the road. I put the Volvo in reverse, turned around, and came face to face with Jack.

"Jack," I said, brows rising. "Get your fucking dome out of my way." Grimacing, Jack thumped back into his seat, and I was able to see to back out. Bobby cackled beside me.

The boys clamored out of the car, Jack slamming the door especially hard and not even bidding me a goodbye. Something was different about that kid and had been since the night he'd found me drinking. Jerry mumbled something that sounded like a goodbye before reclaiming the driver's seat, waving out the window, and taking off at a lesser speed than I would have chosen. Yawning, I strolled over to my Mustang and leaned against the door.

"You comin'?" Bobby asked. I shook my head.

"I'm goin' back to the apartment," I told him, folding my arms.

"Why? Tired of us already?" he smiled, exalted. His hands came to the area where my neck met my shoulders and he massaged the skin there.

Smirking, I said, "I don't wanna sleep on the couch." Since Bobby declined to sleep in Evelyn's room––no one damned him for that––he crashed on the couch, and Bobby was a whole lot of a man ... there wasn't room for another body on that couch when Bobby slept.

"Well, sleep on the floor, then," Bobby gibed. I nudged him back with my crossed arms, grinning, and he stepped forward once more, bringing his hand to the back of my neck, drawing me into his chest. It wasn't the most romantic of embraces, but who said Bobby was a romantic? "Want me to come with ya?"

There were two ways to interpret this inquiry: one, he wanted to come back to the apartment and have sex, or two, he wanted to come back to the apartment and go to sleep like I did. The former was the likeliest option, but Bobby had been surprising me a lot since returning to Detroit.

"I don't know," I shrugged, "depends. 'Cause when I get there, I'm goin' to sleep."

"Sleep?" Bobby mocked.

"Sleep. I'm tired, Bobby."

"From what?"

"Very funny." I looked up at him, chin poised on his chest, and his eyes were on me. I couldn't read them, nor his expression.

"Alright, I'll come with ya," he resigned, as if I'd begged him to accompany me to the apartment to _sleep_. Oh well. I'll take what I can get.

Astonishingly, not only did he follow me to the apartment, but he also offered to drive. It wasn't often I abandoned my right to drive, but I _was_ tired and I'd been driving all day. Besides, one must never take generosity from Bobby for granted. After so long, it was odd to watch Bobby drive––the wheel sliding beneath his fingers after making a turn, his eyes brightening by the reflection of headlights in the rear view mirror. He drove fast, not making much use of the turn signal, but I never felt as though my life were in danger.

Reaching our destination, Bobby slung his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the correct door.

"I'm glad you're back, Bobby," I said, perhaps ill-timed, but I couldn't stop myself. I wrapped my arms round his waist to prevent him from _easily_ running away. He didn't try. As an alternative, he kissed the top of my head, and my insides melted. I realized then that I needed to get him alone more frequently so he could be more compassionate toward me.

"Yeah," he said, taking the key to the apartment from me. "Too bad it had to be like this." He unlocked the door, pushed it open with his foot, and waited until I stepped inside first.

Lynda was lounging on my couch, her bare feet propped up on Trey's––her boyfriend––lap. The two of them jumped into sitting positions, clearly neither of them expected me home tonight. I scowled at Lynda, allowing her to see the obvious anger on my face, the contempt in my eyes for having brought the very man into my home who'd kicked her out of _his_ home. He was the reason Lynda was currently mooching off of me.

"Looks like we're missin' the party," I said to Bobby.

"Looks like," Bobby agreed. He'd never met Trey, but it was no secret how he felt about Lynda and anyone (other than me) that associated with her.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" I asked Trey.

"Just hangin' out," he stammered.

"Oh, speaking of _out_––" I motioned dramatically toward the door "––_bye_."

"Come on, Abby," Lynda chimed in.

"No," I cut her off. "I said you could stay here for three days because that Class A Fuck-up kicked you out and now you bring him into my house? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"So now since Bobby's here you're gonna act like some big bad bitch all of a sudden?" Lynda screeched. Trey held a fist over his mouth as he laughed.

My healthy eyesight burned into a healthy shade of crimson and my teeth ground together so hard I felt it throughout my neck. Subconsciously, to draw the pain from my face, I cracked my knuckles at my sides. Unfortunately, however, I was drained from the earlier sex and fight with Sofí, and I didn't think I had another fight left in me no matter how much I wanted to black her eyes and bust her lips.

Bobby saved the day.

"Alright, enough of this madness," he muttered, stomping over to the couch. He fisted Trey's loose-fitting shirt, jerked him to his feet, and pulled him toward the front door. Trey's feet stumbled over the coffee table Evelyn had purchased for us at a garage sale as Bobby virtually flung him through the air because it made it easier to get him to the door.

"Slow your roll, dude!" Trey squawked just before he was slammed into the door. Lynda jumped from the couch, shoving me out of her way as she followed Trey, who was currently falling out the door.

"Fuck you, Abigail!" she roared, tossing up her middle finger for good measure. I shrugged, waved, and closed the door.

"You gonna let her talk to you like that?" Bobby raged, pushing his jacket down his arms.

"Oh, calm down, killer. Life's not all about fighting," I told him, removing my coat as well. "She'll be back tomorrow, apologizing because Trey kicked her out again, and she'll ask for a place to stay."

"Well, she ain't stayin' here."

Did that mean _he _was?

I shook my head, wisely deciding not to open Pandora's box this early in the game, and I headed upstairs to our bedroom. I removed my clothing quickly so as not to give Bobby a chance to attack me and pulled on a t-shirt I'd been sleeping in for years as I sat at the foot of the bed. When I looked up at Bobby, he was staring at me, or actually, at the shirt I'd put on. It had belonged to him at one point––a Red Wings shirt he'd left behind I'd found in the bottom of the closet.

Bobby stripped the beanie from his head and his hair barely moved. I hated that he slicked it back. I remembered back when I first met him, when he'd been younger and less caring of his longish hair, allowing it to lay freely, framing his handsome face. I could stare at him for hours if at all possible, something I'd been doing a lot lately, but I was entitled to my staring after so many years. He unbuttoned the workman's shirt next, dropping it beside me, and he began tinkering with the tiny stereo system on my dresser. It wasn't brand new, but it was different than the one we'd had when he'd lived here. No doubt he wondered what I'd done with it (packed away somewhere at Evelyn's).

"What do you got in here?" he mumbled to himself, pressing _play_ and upping the volume.

"**Ooh, here I come**––" The lyrics started just as the music started, and the volume was up loud enough to shake the walls and disturb the neighbors. We'd done plenty of that in the past. "**My mind is set**."

"Oh, yeah!" Bobby shouted enthusiastically, though I knew he hated one of my favorite bands. He was mocking me, I knew it, but I laughed, anyway.

"**Get ready for love ... you're my ten second pet. Yeah**!"

As the song went on, Bobby, unbelievably, began to dance. Gaping, I watched as his hips shook, _rolled_, as if he were a Chippendale's dancer, and he lifted the gray shirt he wore beneath the workman's shirt to reveal his toned abs. I probably would have been turned on if not for the amazement and entertainment he was providing. My stomach trembled with laughter I was trying to keep inside.

"Are you kidding right now?" I giggled. He removed the shirt and twirled it over his head. "Bobby, stop it!" I squealed, standing and grabbing the rotating garment, smacking him in the chest with it, then discarding it into the dirty clothes basket.

"What?" Bobby blurted out. "What, I can't dance as good as you?"

"How amazing is it that you've graduated from being a tool to an entire toolbox?" I jeered.

Bobby frowned, and I found myself on the bed after a hard shove by way of his hand on my chest. He turned off the stereo, removed his jeans, shut off the light, and climbed into bed beside me. On his side. I slid under the sheet and light blanket, not knowing what exactly to do next. Do I curl up next to him like I used to or keep my distance for our first night actually sleeping together? Should I not worry about any of this and just go to sleep like I wanted to in the first place?

"Man, I could hear you thinkin' six miles away," Bobby mumbled quietly, as if our parents were in the next room and if they heard us they would ground us. The thought made me smile.

"Can not," was all I could think to say.

"Come here, stupid."

Shaking my head, I scooted closer to him, my leg wrapping round his waist, my arm on his chest, head on his shoulder. He was as comfortable as I remembered, so warm, and his beating heart was poised to put me right to sleep.

"Is this a new bed?" Bobby suddenly asked.

"Yeah," I chuckled. "Ours sucked."

"I know! You always made me sleep on the side with the fuckin' broken spring," he complained.

I smirked. Hell yes I made him sleep on that side. One night I came home from work and he'd flipped the bed over so that the spring was on my side. He was dead asleep when I discovered the spring, digging into my back, but I'd simply nestled as close to him as possible, which put me in the middle of the bed, and I didn't have to deal with the spring that night. He'd worn a condescending smirk all the next day, and I let him have his moment––I'm not sure he ever knew the truth.

"Good dreams tonight," Bobby mumbled, clearly half asleep.

"'Bout what?" I grinned.

He cleared his throat, stretched. "You punchin' Sofí." Chuckling, I buried my face in his neck, and I heard him laugh in the darkness, something I never realized I missed until now. "Or me punchin' Sofí, whichever happens first."

* * *

**Special guest - Derek Vinyard from "American History X," whom I DO NOT own.**

Song Bobby dances to is "Ten Seconds To Love" by Motley Crue.


End file.
